SUBJECT OF THE PLATE.

From "LALLA ROOKH, BY T. MOORE, ESQ. "DURING the stay of the Royal Pilgrim, Abdalla, at Delhi, a marriage was agreed upon, between the prince, his son, and the youngest daughter of the emperor, LALLA ROOKн, a princess described by the poets of her time, as more beautiful than Leila, Sherine, Dewildé, or any of those heroines, whose names and loves embellish the songs of Persia and Hindostan. It was intended that the nuptials should be celebrated at Cashmere, where the young king, as soon as the cares of empire would permit, was to meet, for the first time, his lovely bride, and, after a few months' repose in that enchanting valley, conduct her over the snowy hills into Bucharia.

The day of LALLA ROOKH's departure from Delhi, was as splendid as sun-shine and pageantry could make it. The bazaars and baths were all covered with the richest tapestry; hundreds of gilded barges upon the Jumna floated with their banners shining in the water, while through the streets groups of beautiful children went strewing the most delicious flowers around, as in that Persian festival called the Scattering of the Roses, till every part of the city was as fragrant as if a caravan of musk from Khoten had passed through it. The princess, having taken leave of her kind father, who, at parting, hung a cornelian of Yemen round her neck, on which was inscribed a verse of the Koran, and having sent a considerable present to the Fakiers, who kept up the perpetual lamp of her sister's tomb, meekly ascended the palanquin prepared for her; and while Aurungzebe stood to take a last look from the balcony, the procession moved slowly on the road to Lahore.

Seldom had the Eastern world seen a cavalcade more superb. From the gardens in the suburbs to the imperial palace, it was one unbroken line of splendor." Tulip-cheek.

F

TO MY MUSE.

AS the fond lover hastes thro' meads and groves, To meet at eve the beauteous maid he loves; Hangs o'er her form, in pleasing transport lost, And thinks no monarch greater joys can boast; Then blames the hours that roll along so fast, Steals one kiss more, and that must be the last; Yet, fixed by the strong ties that bind his heart, Still stays, still looks, and thinks it death to part; Thus, oft, Oh Muse! in life's delightful morn, (Sweet smiling hours of Joy and Fancy born) Beneath some hawthorn-bush, or willow-tree, I held soft dalliance for awhile with thee. Oh! well do I recall that happy day When, as on Avon's flowery bank I lay, Amidst a golden cloud of ether bright, Thy form first shone on my enraptured sight. With that soft look an elder sister wears, When to her brother she some present bears, Thou gavest into my hand my well-tuned lyre, And taughtest me how to touch each warbling wire. When first I learned its numbers to controul, O'er all my powers what sweet enchantment stole ! Each nerve (as chords will vibrate to the tone Of other chords whose notes are like their own) Thrilled with delight to catch the new-born strain, And tides of transport rushed thro' every vein.

To my prompt mind each scene, each object, brought Some novel image, or romantic thought:

If evening came, then wearied Nature laid
On Andes' lofty top her drooping head;

The rose on which soft moon-beams played awhile,
Was beauty's cheek illumined with a smile;
And the small bark that sought the distant sea,
Methought an emblem of myself might be,
Who, tho' I then did trivial rhymes rehearse,
Might one day reach the boundless tide of verse.
And now I seemed to hear upon the breeze
Eolian spirits pour their symphonies;
In solemn concert first the notes aspire,
Sad as the anthem of a funeral choir,
And then, with softer tones again they rise,
Sweet as the swan's last requiem ere she dies.

Lulled by such heavenly sounds, I sunk to rest,
And every care was banished from my breast,
While Fancy over me waved her magic wand,
And these bright visions rose at her command.
Beneath a natural bower of woodbine laid,
Immortal Shakespeare's form I first surveyed,
Whose varying features in succession seem
To own each passion in a changeful dream,
From Romeo's love, that quickened every breath,
To the pale livid terror of Macbeth.

Next Milton, seated on a rock sublime,
Gazed calmly on the raging sea of time,
Whose ebbing tide, receding from the shore,
But left the mountain higher than before.
Upon a river then, whose tide, tho' strong,
Was clear as chrystal, Dryden sailed along;
His vessel's head a Roman eagle bore,

Her sails with sunbeams bright were burnished o'er,
And, as direct she went before the wind,
Her master standing at the helm behind,
Poured forth so varied and so sweet a strain,
It seemed that old Timotheus tuned his lyre again.
Borne in a skiff upon a spacious lake,

Whose sleep no breeze intrusive dared to break,
And round whose mossy banks, in close retreats,
The bee for years had stored her honied sweets,
Pope poised with measured strokes the labouring oar,
And strained each nerve to reach the farthest shore,
Where, burnished o'er by the declining sun,
In golden splendour Fame's proud temple shone,
And, from an adamantine mountain's brow,

Cast its broad shadow o'er the lake below.

Such were the dreams which once were wont to shed A halo of delight around my head,

And tho' the brilliant tints thy pictures wore

In those bright days, Oh Muse! are seen no more,
To memory's view more beautiful they shine,
With colours mellowed by the touch of time.
And still, as wandering on thro' life I go,
From thee I find my choicest pleasures flow;
Around my path thy fairy visions dance
In all the forms and colours of romance,
While springs of transport rise at thy command,
Like chrystal fountains in a waste of sand.

Whene'er I wake the witch-notes of my lyre,
Thou warm'st my bosom with celestial fire,
And bidst my winged thoughts, like meteors, trace
Their course erratic thro' the fields of space.
Thou chasest from my heart the phantom Care,
And bring'st gay Fancy with her visions there,
Show'st me in Fairyland thy castles built,
Enchant'st, transport'st, and bear'st me where thou wilt.
Oh then, loved Muse! whate'er my fate may be,
I'll ne'er forget to pay my vows to thee;

Thy heavenly smile shall cheer me on my way,
As thro' the scenes of active life I stray,
And, like some kind enchantress' spell, assuage
The pains that haunt my pillow in old age.
Newcastle upon Tyne.

THE VISION OF LOVE.

J. PLAYER.

What is it, that oft thro' the shadows of night,
Adorns my rapt fancy with dreams of delight;
And high o'er my head its soft lustre doth pour?
Tis the form, all so lovely, of her I adore!
With sweet beaming smile it flits over my brain,
Then sinks into distance and darkness again:
Yet tho' in a moment the vision is o'er,

I can tell, from its beauty, 'tis her I adore.
Around it the bright ray of virtue is spread,

And the crown of pure innocence rests on its head; With the lustre of each, its fair brow is spread o'er, And this sure would prove that 'tis her I adore. Thus lovely in beauty each night it doth seem,

As I gaze with delight thro' the short pleasing dream; But when day appears, and these shadows are o'er, I find my bliss truly in her I adore.

TO HARRIET ANNE.

HENRIQUE.

On her saying that she wished she knew the inmost thoughts of the Author's heart.

""Tis open as my speech."

AH! would that through the black cloud round it One sunny spot might haply shine,

How would I joy that thou hadst found it,

For thou would'st find that spot is thine.

If 'mid a heap of crime and folly

A spark of truth and love be mine,
Beaming through gloom and melancholy,
Believe me, dearest! it is thine.

But there, if hate and vengeance reigning,
Make my heart their secret shrine,
Truth, feeling, with their venom staining,
I may not say that heart is thine.
But, good or ill, if thou wilt take it,
And near thine own its place assign,
Whate'er thou pleasest thou canst make it,
For, dearest, it is only thine!

31, Great Suffolk Street,

Haymarket.

HILARY HETHERINGTON,

TO HARRIET ANNE.

I AM not severed from thee! to my soul
Aye present is that most endearing smile
That first with sweet and unopposed controul
Threw round my heart the magic of its wile.
"Tis an eternal charm, and will beguile
My bosom of long years of pain and care!
Fortune may change, friends leave, or foes revile,
But, while my mind the memory can wear
Of thy unchanging love, all ills 'twill calmly bear.
Oh, I am with thee yet! thy tender tones
Are now vibrating on my wondering ear;
Like some soft music that, with echoing moans,
Telling of Love's fond hope, or doubt, or fear,
Steals from a wood o'er listening river near;
So came it on my soul, so comes it still,

It found and finds it desolate and drear,
But will not leave it so-it wakes a thrill

Of love and hope that cheers, despite its lonely will. Thou'rt here! I press thy fair form to my heart, And in that eye which is itself a soul,'

I read of feelings that may not depart

Till life shall reach its darkest, latest goal;
Thy lips are pressed to mine-I feel the whole
Of oft-imagined bliss, ne'er felt till now ;-
Dreams realized that o'er my fancy stole
Ere I beheld thee, ere I thought that thou

Couldst on a heart like this such perfect bliss bestow.