hance embosomed, when that dust was rife,
The pale unconscious dead
On the strown relics laid
Of old Elisha, in his passing sleep,
Still, at the hallowed touch, starts back to warmth and life. [FN#25]

[FN#25] Every one must recollect the sublime picture here alluded to.

Sweet, when the soul is weary of the ills
That stern reality presents, to dwell
On beauteous forms: they smooth
The ruffled sense, and sooth
The heart with soft perfection; till a spell
Blends with its troublous pulse, and all its achings stills.

And who can look nor own the pencil's power
Where tender Ariadne, happy yet, [FN#26]
Lies in a dream of bliss?
The last half-pitying kiss,
By falsehood given, her sleeping lip has met--
That still seems hovering there like Zephyr o'er a flower.

[FN#26] Vanderlyn's Ariadne.

The dawn breaks slowly o'er the distant main,
To come no more her ingrate hero flies;
While thoughts confiding speak
Upon her mantling cheek--
Illusion chains the sense--in lowest sighs
Whispering--we fear to see her wake to pain.

But whither wandering? whatsoe'er has gained
Long conning book and heart the white-haired sage;
Cause and remote effect
In living semblance dect,
The truths divine of many a moral page
Thy hand, harmonious Peale, hath at a glance explained.

STANZAS.

To meet a friendship such as mine
Such feelings must thy heart refine
As seldom mortal mind gives birth,
'Tis love, without a stain of earth,
_Fratello del mio cor._

Tho' friendship be its earthly name
All pure, from highest heaven, it came
'Tis never felt for more than one,
And scorns to dwell with Venus' son
_Fratello del mio cor._

Him let it view not, or it flies
Like tender hues of morning-skies,
Or morn's sweet flower, of purple glow.
When sunny beams too ardent grow
_Fratello del mio cor._

It's food is looks, its nectar, sighs,
Its couch the lip, its throne the eyes
The soul its breath; and so possest,
Heaven's raptures reign in mortal breast.
_Fratello del mio cor._

ON THE DEATH OF A LADY.

Thy home seemed not of earth--so blest--
But there has fall'n a shaft of fate--
The dove is stricken; and the nest
She warmed and cheered is desolate.

But fairest not for thee, we mourn:
Blest from thy birth, thou sti