ge of 33, in sight almost of the famous
dungeon of Perote, where he had long been a prisoner. There was
something like retribution in the fact that more than one other Texan,
who, like himself, had been confined there, contributed to raise above
its battlements the colors of the United States.

LAMARTINE TO MADAME JORELLE.

FROM THE FRENCH.

BY VIRGINIA.

What! offer thee the tribute of my numbers?
Thou daughter of the East! whose infancy
The warring desert winds rocked to its slumbers--
Dost thou demand incense of Poesy?

Flower of Aleppo! whom the Bulbul choosing
Would wander from his worshiped rose of May,
O'er thy fair chalice her remembrance losing,
To languish 'mid thy leaves his moonlight lay!

Bear odors to the balm pure sweets exhaling?
Hang on the orange bough a riper load?
Lend fires to Syria's East at dawn unveiling?
Pave with new stars[1] the Night's all-glittering road?

No verses here!--Verse would despair of raising
Aught save an image dark and faint of thee;
But gently in yon basin's mirror gazing
Behold thyself! Embodied Poesy!

When through the kiosque's grated ogive straying,
The sea-breeze mingles with the Moka's fume,
Where softly o'er thy form the moonbeams playing
Glance on thy couch, rich from Palmyra's loom--

When on the jasmine tube thy lip half closes,
Veiled with its golden threads in bright array,
While ruffling at thy breath, fragrant with roses,
Murmur the drops within the Narquite--

When as winged perfumes rise into thy brain,
In light caressing clouds around thee wreathing
All love's and youth's lost visions throng again,
An atmosphere of dreams thy listeners breathing--

When in thy tale the Arab steed forth starting
Yields foaming to thy curb of infancy,
And that triumphant glance obliquely darting
Equals the summer-lightning of his eye--

When thy fair arm, of loveliest symmetry,
Supports the fairer brow in thought reclining,
While gleams with diamond fires thy poniard nigh
In quick reflection of the torch's shining--

Naught is there in the murmured words of feeling,
Naught in the Poet's ever dreaming brow,
Naught in pure sighs from purest bosoms stealing,
Naught redolent of Poesy as thou!

With me the age has flown when Love, life's flower,