d poetry her world,
And she will see strange beauty in a flower
As by a subtle vision. I care not
To know how she bewitches; 'tis enough
For me that I can listen to her voice
And dream rare dreams of music, or converse
Upon unwrit philosophy, till I
Am wildered beneath thoughts I cannot bound
And the red lip that breathes them.
On my arm
Leaned an unshadowed girl, who scarcely yet
Had numbered fourteen summers. I know not
How I shall draw her picture--the young heart
Has such a restlessness of change, and each
Of its wild moods so lovely! I can see
Her figure in its rounded beauty now,
With her half-flying step, her clustering hair
Bathing a neck like Hebe's, and her face
By a glad heart made radiant. She was full
Of the romance of girlhood. The fair world
Was like an unmarred Eden to her eye,
And every sound was music, and the tint
Of every cloud a silent poetry.
Light to thy path, bright creature! I would charm
Thy being if I could, that it should be
Ever as now thou dreamest, and flow on
Thus innocent and beautiful to heaven!
We walked beneath the full and mellow moon
Till the late stars had risen. It was not
In silence, though we did not seem to break
The hush with our low voices; but our thoughts
Stirred deeply at their sources; and when night
Divided us, I slumbered with a peace
Floating about my heart, which only comes
From high communion. I shall never see
That silver moon again without a crowd
Of gentle memories, and a silent prayer,
That when the night of life shall oversteal
Your sky, ye lovely sisters! there may be
A light as beautiful to lead you on.

JANUARY 1, 1828.

Fleetly hath past the year. The seasons came
Duly as they are wont--the gentle Spring,
And the delicious Summer, and the cool,
Rich Autumn, with the nodding of the grain,
And Winter, like an old and hoary man,
Frosty and stiff--and so are chronicled.
We have read gladness in the new green leaf,
And in the first blown violets; we have drunk
Cool water from the rock, and in the shade
Sunk to the noon-tide slumber;--we have eat
The mellow fruitage of the bending tree,
And girded to our pleasant wanderings
When the cool wind came freshly from the hills;
And when the tint