CLEOPATRA.

BY T. K. HERVEY, ESQ.

The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold:

Purple the sails; and so perfumed that

The winds were love-sick with them: the oars were silver;

Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made

The water which they beat to follow faster,

As amorous of their strokes.

SHAKSPEARE.

FLUTES in the sunny air!

I.

And harps in the porphyry halls!

And a low, deep hum,—like a people's prayer,—

With its heart-breathed swells and falls!

And an echo, like the desart's call,

Flung back to the shouting shores!

And the river's ripple, heard through all,

As it plays with the silver oars!-

The sky is a gleam of gold!

And the amber breezes float,

--

Like thoughts to be dreamed of,-but never told,—

Around the dancing boat!