And there may be, there are those explosions of

heart,

Which burst, when the senses have first caught

the flame;

Such fits of the blood as those climates impart,

Where Love is a sun-stroke, that maddens the frame.

But that Passion, which springs in the depth of the soul;

Whose beginnings are virginly pure as the source Of some small mountain rivulet, destin'd to roll As a torrent, ere long, losing peace in its course—

A course, to which Modesty's struggle but lends
A more headlong descent, without chance of re-

call;

But which Modesty ev'n to the last edge attends, And, then, throws a halo of tears round its fall!

This exquisite Passion-ay, exquisite, even

Mid the ruin its madness too often hath made, As it keeps, even then, a bright trace of the heaven, That heaven of Virtue from which it has stray'd

This entireness of love, which can only be found, Where Woman, like something that's holy,

watch'd over,

And fenc'd, from her childhood, with purity round, Comes, body and soul, fresh as Spring, to a lover!

Where not an eye answers, where not a hand presses,
Till spirit with spirit in sympathy move;
And the Senses, asleep in their sacred recesses,
Can only be reach'd through the temple of Love!-

This perfection of Passion-how can it be found,
Where the mystery nature hath hung round the tie
By which souls are together attracted and bound,
Is laid open, for ever, to heart, ear, and eye;

Where nought of that innocent doubt can exist,

That ignorance, even than knowledge more bright, Which circles the young, like the morn's sunny mist, And curtains them round in their own native

light;

Where Experience leaves nothing for Love to reveal, Or for Fancy, in visions, to gleam o'er the thought;

But the truths which, alone, we would die to conceal From the maiden's young heart, are the only ones

taught.

No, no, 'tis not here, howsoever we sigh,

Whether purely to Hymen's one planet we pray, Or adore, like Sabæans, each light of Love's sky, Here is not the region, to fix or to stray.

For faithless in wedlock, in gallantry gross, Without honour to guard, or reserve to restrain, What have they, a husband can mourn as a loss? What have they, a lover can prize as a gain?

EXTRACT XII.

Florence.

Recollections of other

Music in Italy.-Disappointed by it.

Times and Friends.- Dalton. · Sir John Stevenson.- His

Daughter. Musical Evenings together.

If it be true that Music reigns,
Supreme, in ITALY's soft shades,
'Tis like that Harmony, so famous,
Among the spheres, which, He of SAMOS
Declar'd, had such transcendent merit,
That not a soul on earth could hear it;
For, far as I have come-from Lakes,
Whose sleep the Tramontana breaks,
Through MILAN, and that land, which gave
The Hero of the rainbow vest*.

By MINCIO's banks, and by that wave†,
Which made VERONA's bard so blest-

Places, that (like the Attic shore,

Which rung back music, when the sea

Bergamo - the birth-place, it is said, of Harlequin. †The Lago di Garda.

Struck on its marge) should be, all o'er,
Thrilling alive with melody

I've heard no music-not a note
Of such sweet native airs as float,
In my own land, among the throng,
And speak our nation's soul for song.

Nay, ev'n in higher walks, where Art
Performs, as 'twere, the gardener's part,
And richer, if not sweeter, makes

The flow'rs she from the wild-hedge takes-
Ev'n there, no voice hath charm'd my ear,
No taste hath won my perfect praise,
Like thine, dear friend *—long, truly dear
Thine, and thy lov'd OLIVIA's lays.
She, always beautiful, and growing
Still more so every note she sings —
Like an inspir'd young Sibyl†, glowing
With her own bright imaginings!
And thou, most worthy to be tied

In music to her, as in love,

Edward Tuite Dalton, the first husband of Sir John Stevenson's daughter, the late Marchioness of Headfort.

† Such as those of Domenichino in the Palazzo Borghese. at the Capitol, &c.