aste, and one which is very obscure
to the general reader, to a conjurer of the name of Philadelphia who
exhibited before Frederick the Great.]

Then the vassal airs that woo thee,
Hush their low breath hearkening to thee.
In delight and in devotion,
Pausing from her whirling motion,
Nature, in enchanted calm,
Silently drinks the floating balm.
Sorceress, _her_ heart with thy tone
Chaining--as thine eyes my own!

O'er the transport-tumult driven,
Doth the music gliding swim;
From the strings, as from their heaven,
Burst the new-born Seraphim.
As when from Chaos' giant arms set free,
'Mid the Creation-storm, exultingly
Sprang sparkling thro' the dark the Orbs of Light--
So streams the rich tone in melodious might.

Soft-gliding now, as when o'er pebbles glancing,
The silver wave goes dancing;
Now with majestic swell, and strong,
As thunder peals in organ-tones along;
And now with stormy gush,
As down the rock, in foam, the whirling torrents rush.
To a whisper now
Melts it amorously,
Like the breeze through the bough
Of the aspen tree;
Heavily now, and with a mournful breath,
Like midnight's wind along those wastes of death,
Where Awe the wail of ghosts lamenting hears,
And slow Cocytus trails the stream whose waves are tears.

Speak, maiden, speak!--Oh, art thou one of those
Spirits more lofty than our region knows?
Should we in _thine_ the mother-language seek
Souls in Elysium speak?

FLOWERS.

Children of Suns restored to youth,
In purfled fields ye dwell,
Rear'd to delight and joy--in sooth
Kind Nature loves ye well!
Broider'd with light the robes ye wear,
And liberal Flora decks ye fair
In gorgeous-colour'd pride.
Yet woe--Spring's harmless infants--woe!
Mourn, for ye wither while ye glow--
Mourn for the _soul_ denied!

The sky-lark and the nightbird sing
To you their hymns of love;
And Sylphs that wanton on the wing,
Embrace your blooms above.
Woven for Love's soft pillow were
The chalice crowns ye flushing bear,
By the Idalian Queen.
Yet weep, soft children of the Spring,
The _feelings_ love alone can bring
To you denied have been!

But _me_ in vain my Fanny's [15] eyes
Her mother hath forbidden;
For in the buds I gather, lies
Love's symbol-language hidden.
Mute heralds of voluptuous pain,
I touch y