roof in wavy echoes flows,
O, I am rapt aloft!--My spirit soars
Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind!

Lo, angels lead me to the happy shores,
And floating paeans fill the buoyant wind.
Farewell, base earth farewell.--My soul is freed:
Far from its clayey cell it springs--where music dwells indeed.

* * * * *

_Little things are Best._

A JEU D'ESPRIT.

Addressed to Miss C---- a _little, short_ lady.

_Satis parva res est._ Amphitrion, Act 2, Sce. 2.

When any thing abounds, we find
That nobody will have it,
But when there's _little_ of the kind,
Don't all the people crave it?

If wives are evils, as 'tis known
And woefully confess'd
The man who's wise will surely own
A little one is best.[I]

The god of love's a _little_ wight,
But beautiful as thought;
Thou too art _little_, fair as light,
And every thing--in _short!_[J]

O, happy girl! I think thee so,
For mark the poets'[K] song--
"_Man_ wants but _little_ here below,
Nor wants that little _long!_"

* * * * *

_From Poetical Tales, founded on facts._

On yon tall rock's projecting side,
See where the stripling bends his way,
To hang with rapture o'er the tide,
And tune a sweetly rustic lay.

Say what in sportive youth can move
To dwell on nature's varied hue?
What bids his bosom glow with love
And bathes his azure eye in dew?

What bids him hail the matin strain,
As morn's first blush illumes the vale;
And wake at midnight hour again,
To listen to the nightingale?

O Genius! 'twas thy strong control,
As o'er his cradle, from on high,
Thou way'd thy magnet o'er his soul,
And on his lips breath'd harmony.

Thy magic touch bade fancy rove,
As mind its early charms display'd;
Bade Shakspeare every passion move,
And Homer on his pillow laid.

Thou gav'st that fine perceptive sense,
Which throws o'er ev'ry scene its charm;
To joy will brighter joy dispense,
To grief more exquisite alarm.

Ah! dangerous gift, where bliss appears
But as the morn's first vivid ray,
And grief her mournful aspect rears
Through the long, lingering, weary day!

Yet siren Genius! still to thee
Thy captive pours the gra