But woe for those who trample o'er a mind!

A deathless thing.-They know not what they do,
Or what they deal with !-Man perchance may bind
The flower his step hath bruis'd; or light anew
The torch he quenches; or to music wind
Again the lyre-string from his touch that flew-
But for the soul!-oh! tremble, and beware
To lay rude hands upon God's mysteries there!

For blindness wraps that world—our touch may turn Some balance, fearfully and darkly hung,

Or put out some bright spark, whose ray should burn
To point the way a thousand rocks among―

Or break some subtle chain, which none discern,
Though binding down the terrible, the strong,
Th' o'ersweeping passions—which to loose on life
Is to set free the elements for strife!

Who then to power and glory shall restore

That which our evil rashness hath undone ?

Who unto mystic harmony once more

Attune those viewless chords ?-There is but One!

He that through dust the stream of life can pour,
The Mighty and the Merciful alone!

-Yet oft His paths have midnight for their shade

He leaves to man the ruin man hath made!—

TASSO AND HIS SISTER.

"Devant vous est Sorrente; là démeuroit la sœur de Tasse, quand il vint en pélérin démander à cette obscure amie, un asile contre l'injustice des princes.-Ses longues douleurs avoient presque égaré sa raison; il ne lui restoit plus que du génie."

Corinne.

SHE sat, where on each wind that sigh'd
The citron's breath went by ;

While the deep gold of eventide

Burn'd in the Italian sky.

Her bower was one where daylight's close
Full oft sweet laughter found,

As thence the voice of childhood rose

To the high vineyards round.

But still and thoughtful, at her knee,

Her children stood that hour,

Their bursts of song, and dancing glee,
Hush'd as by words of power.

With bright, fix'd, wondering eyes that gaz'd

Up to their mother's face;

With brows through parting ringlets rais'd,
They stood in silent grace.

While she-yet something o'er her look
Of mournfulness was spread-
Forth from a poet's magic book

The glorious numbers read;
The proud, undying lay, which pour'd
Its light on evil years;

His of the gifted Pen and Sword,*
The triumph and the tears.

She read of fair Erminia's flight,

Which Venice once might hear,
Sung on her glittering seas at night,
By many a gondolier;

* It is scarcely necessary to recall the well known Italian saying, that Tasso with his sword and pen was superior to all men.

Of him she read, who broke the charm
That wrapt the myrtle grove;

Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm,
That slew his Paynim love.

Young cheeks around that bright page glow'd,
Young holy hearts were stirr'd;
And the meek tears of woman flow'd

Fast o'er each burning word.

And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf,
Came sweet each pause between ;
When a strange voice of sudden grief

Burst on the gentle scene.

The mother turn'd-a way-worn man,
In pilgrim garb stood nigh,
Of stately mien, yet wild and wan,

Of proud, yet restless eye.

But drops that would not stay for pride,

From that dark eye gush'd free,

As, pressing his pale brow, he cried, "Forgotten! e'en by thee!