pointed this hour to take me to his convent, or monastery as they would say in England-therefore my "dainty Ariel "

"to the elements,-"

Be free and fare thee well."

DREAMINGS.

I slept-my weary, aching eyes,
With slumber's leaden seal imprest,

Were clos'd; 'twas not the veil that lies
So softly o'er the infant's eyes:
"Twas not the shade kind spirits fling
To veil the blue eye's glistening,
That 'neath its lid, in pearly light,
Looks out, to tell a heart as bright:
I slept: my weary, aching eyes
Were clos'd-but not in rest.
For when that fearful vision came
Cold creeping o'er my trembling frame,
You would have shudder'd in the glare
Of those dim eyes' unearthly stare.

I slept: 'twas not that holy sleep
That steals the tear from eyes that weep;
That breaks the shafts of wrong and wo,
And bathes the toil-worn pilgrim's brow:
"Twas not the placid sleep, that wears
Death's holy calm, without its fears:
When the still watcher bends above
The couch of mother, child or love,
And marks the scarcely heaving breast
And parted lip of dreamless rest;
And gazes still, and feels a breath
Of sweet devotion rise and wreathe
Around his heart-a strange, deep sense
Of pleas'd, yet awful reverence.

O! no- -You would have shrunk aghast
From the wild war of passion's blast;
You would have shrunk aghast, to see
The big, cold drops of agony
Start forth upon my brow, to tell
The writhing spirit's inward hell.

I slept on; but the grappling strife-
The last faint throb of parting life

F.

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Was past: The spirit's mighty grasp
Was broke: was loos'd its twining clasp:
Down-down it sank: yet o'er the form
Where late it dwelt in joyance warm,—
(But now 'twas cold and still and pale)
Was bending one with tear and wail:
'Twas One had held that spirit there
When struggling to be gone; to tear
Whose bonds-whose gently twining chain
Of many folds, death strove in vain ;
Till that dark, fearful giant came-
Despair (I shudder at thy name !)
And rent them. Yet there one was bending
And even to death a beauty lending :
An awful beauty-like the light

That streams o'er Greenland's gloomy night.
Alas!-Why bends she o'er the clay
Whose habitant hath pass'd away:
Whose heart, that once was all her own,
Is cold-whose love with life hath flown.

That breath upon me, as when spring
Comes o'er the hills, with sunny wing
Fanning the small brooks, and the earth
Laughs and exults in its new birth,
While breathing incense from their bowers
Peep gaily forth the spring-time flowers;
And the bright prattling streams in glee
Dance to the young grove's melody:
And the fresh morning wakes a choir
Of strains more sweet than minstrel's lyre,
And night's deep glorious arch around
Makes music without voice or sound;
Till in man's heart and maiden's eye
Springs up and dwells a nameless joy.

Yet was sleep on me though I seem'd
Forever waken'd; and I deem'd
That over me such heavy chain
Of slumber might not fall again.

For seem'd it, the dark tangled mesh,
That knits within its cell of flesh

The struggling soul, was broke-and torn-
And swept away-and it was born

I was borne upward: in the pride
Of deathless triumph soaring wide

Through the broad heavens: I had no place,
But over all and in all space-

I was all formless, yet in me
Was a mysterious unity:

All organless, yet darkness there
Was not, and things of beauty were

Floating around me, that I saw

And felt, and lov'd; with a deep awe,

And a wild blissful consciousness,

That thrill'd me through: nor was I less

Awake in every pore to thee,

Infinite joy of harmony!

Or as those phantom isles, &c. An optical delusion, caused by the reflection of objects on the clouds which act as mirrors to each other, and, as different angles are presented, multiply and beautify their reflections from one to another to a great distance, till finally being cast upon fog-banks at sea they assume the appearance of beautiful islands. They have been many times seen between the Azores and Bermudas, and some mariners have even laid them down in their charts. You might, I presume, find a particular description of these phenomena in an encyclopedia under the name of Fog banks or Fairy Islands.

And when wild billows warring high,
Toss their white foam-wreaths to the sky,
In placid loveliness are seen

To lift their verdant hillocks green,
And wave their forest-tops and flowers,
And spread their soft inviting bowers:
Of such the men of Sailor bands
Have told, and call'd them Fairy-lands.
And there I wander'd, or reclined,
And lovely arms about me twin'd,
And lips breath'd on me, till too deep
Grew the soft extacy, and sleep
Fled from me, and I woke the bright
Broad sun look'd on me in his might.

I rose and went forth: sounds that cheer
The soul were hymning in mine ear,

And earth's bright things, that make men glad,
Were on mine eye but I was sad :
For who, from such a dream of bliss,
Would wake again to wld like this.

M.

A COTERIE.

However, he did pretty well, and was
Admitted as an aspirant to all
The Coteries, and as in Banquo's glass,
At great assemblies or in parties small,
He saw ten thousand living authors pass,
That being about the average numeral,
Also the eighty greatest living poets,

As every paltry magazine can show its.

I was lately present at a legitimate Coterie; legitimate, because there was there a proper proportion of blue-stocking men and women, drawing-room poets, writers in albums, novel-readers and poor authors. Their lady-protectress was ambitious of gathering round her once a week a collection of literati; and with the help of her own good humour and real wit, and the display of many of the good things of life withal, she was able to accomplish her purpose in a handsome manner. I had often been invited to attend these assemblies,—not that I am at all in the literary way, but merely as one that might be amused by the scene,and finally determined to muster all my application for a day or two beforehand, to brush up my quotations from Shakspeare, review several pages of my jest-book, look at the latest maga

zines, inquire at the book-store the names of the last novels, and thus proceed armed cap-a-pie to the scene of literary battles. I took very particular care to appear in an easy dress, wearing the least glossy pair of shoes I could find in my closet, substituting a plain black ribbon for my gold watch chain, and parading at least two hours before the glass before I could give my cravat any thing of a belles lettres air. I expected to find here none but professed authors, and at least none admitted but those who had published under some form or other,—in the magazines or newspapers. Judge of my surprise then, when I was ushered into a room glowing with beauty and fashion and brilliancy; and though some were there with care-worn brows, and thread-bare coats, and even with patched or unpatched shoes, they seemed rather like malignant spirits obtruding themselves upon the gay scene, than sharing its pleasures. But after the first few minutes of formal ceremony were over, I perceived the company separated into knots of six or eight, each cluster containing a male or female blue attended by several satellites or worshippers, and I found that every author was surrounded by a class who considered him as their oracle in matters of taste and wit. As this was the first night of my introduction here, I thought I was entitled to the privilege of going the rounds of the parties, before determining under whose banners to enlist myself. Before I commenced I thought one evening would hardly be long enough to weigh the merits of the respective circles; the event, the following pages will show.

The first circle that I approached consisted of a gentleman in black, with spectacles, and a cue; a lady, I know by her neatness and primness that she was unmarried, of about fifty; with three young ladies and as many male attendants. When I joined them they were conversing on Greece.

"There is no language in the world," said the gentleman in black," that can be compared with that of the ancient Greeks; no periods that can equal their's in sonorousness and sublimity. Hem !"

"Hem!" said I, as I made my best bow to the ladies and shook hands with one of the gentlemen, with whom I happened to be acquainted.

"There are no historians or poets," addressing myself to the knight of the spectacles, "who have written since, that have come up to the immortal models of antiquity." About which, by the way, my knowledge was confined to some two books of VOL. II.-No. 2.

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