Yes, spirit! to me but a spirit thou art,
A bodiless vision-a dream of the heart;
I see not thy form, I hear not thy voice,

Yet thon com'st o'er my spirit, and bid'st it rejoice.

Is it thus, is it thus, in the bright bowers above,
Those meet, who on earth were united in love :
Whose souls were, like parts of some rapturous tune,
All blent into song-is it thus they commune?

Do they ask not for words their emotion to speak-
The glance of the eye, or the flush of the cheek;
But, spirit to spirit divinely inclined,
Meet, mix, and dissolve in the union of mind?

And is not this silent communion most sweet?
Oh! say, would the bright spell be o'er if we meet?
If so-let us still be apart-let no stain

Be upon it-no shadow of earth intervene.

Let spirit meet spirit, soul mingle with soul,
Pure, free, and undimmed by the bodies control:
Be earth, and the things that are of it, forgot;
Let us live but in thought, as if substance were not.

No Plato! you dreamer! that never will do,

To drink bliss from one cup, when the gods give us two,
Fond words are far sweeter, when fond lips declare 'em,
And bright thoughts are brighter, when kind glances boar 'em

To

I have a deep and sacred shrine
Where friendship might repair,
Felicia, wilt thou give me thine,
And I'll enshrine it there;

I'll offer it thoughts as pure and true
As were e'er at its altar given;

As soft as the fall of the Summer eve's dew,
And as mild as the Summer eve's heaven.

And never shall wilder passion break

On its pure and holy rest,

"Twill be calm and bright as the deep, deep lake

With the moonlight on its breast;

And I'll wreath it around with flowers, and song,

Of every tone and dye,

The muse shall her fondest lay prolong,

And the flower its most fragrant sigh.

Do you ask where this sacred shrine may be ?
And whence these flowers shall spring?

And who is the muse, that, so witchingly,

Her ravishing spell shall fling?

Fond thoughts-fond thoughts, that never will die, 'Till life itself depart,

Shall be the flowers :-and the melody

Kind words-and the shrine-my heart.

Oh! deem not this love,-to love's withering flame,

Such purity ne'er was given,

On earth 'tis abused under friendship's name,

Perhaps it is love—in Heaven.

On a Fruit Knife with the Inscription

"WHO IS SHE."

"Some beauteous bird without a name."-MOORE.

Who is she? Is the spell
Of beauty on her brow?
Or does her pale cheek tell
The breach of plighted vow ?
Does she among the gay,

Run pleasure's giddy round?
Or is she mid the holy haunts
Of meditation found?

Who is she?-Is her heart

Young passion's burning shrine?

Or did its early dream depart,

And leave it cold as mine?

Did all the visions fade

Gay fancy loves to nurse?
And have their parting footsteps left
A blessing or a curse?

Who is she?-Mid the fair

Should I her form descry,
Is her's the sunny hair,

And still more sunny eye?

Or doth the darker hue

The raven's plume displays,

Dwell on each tress? and has she all
The falcon in her gaze?

G

Who is she? Is her thought
Of or beyond the earth?
Has her rich fancy caught

Those shapes of glorious birth,
Which, in its golden dream,
Imagination sees?

Or does it cling to this dull world's More dull realities?

Who is she?-nay, unfold

The secret name-yet still I would not have it told;

The thousand thoughts that fill My guessing fancy now,

Would vanish as they came, And leave, instead of visions bright A name—an empty name.

MR. O'CONNELL.

Beyond a doubt men are born for particular times and peculiar circumstances. It may be that all, from the highest to the lowest, have their particular allotments; but then, in the every-day transactions of common life, the ordination is not so obvious. It is only in stirring times, and on great occasions, that we admire the extreme adaptation with which providence fits its instruments to the period and the purpose. We may be all the creatures of circumstances, but men who conduct high undertakings to sucessful issues must be the creators of circumstances also. Washington possessed, in the highest possible degree, the simple but great qualities that fitted him for the singleness of purpose to which he was destined. The formation of an O'CONNELL (we had almost said was a more difficult task) required a nicer adaptation for the more involved and complex state of society, which he was evidently raised up to simplify and reform. Taxation without representation was the moving cause of the American Revolution, and, in the pursuit and attainment of that one object, they acquired all the blessings and advantages which self-government confers.

The state of society which O'Connell seems created to reform is widely different; the abuses he is