ZOË: A PORTRAIT.

WHEN Zoë turns to look or speak,

We feel a spell the heart beguile. Dwells it in pure transparent cheek; In laughing eye, or frolic smile?

Dwells it in frank, yet well-bred, air;
Dwells it in habit, choice, but simple;
Lurks it in ringlet of her hair;

Or shifts it with the shifting dimple ?

No! These are not her spells from Love; Only the lesser charms he uses;

Slight witcheries the sense to move;

His baits-his pitfalls—and his nooses.

Yet these have oft betrayed the wise

But she hath deeper spells than these: A temper, gay as summer skies,

Yet gentle as the vernal breeze.

And blushes, quick that come-and go, As feeling wakens or reposes,

When neck and cheek and forehead glow, Like one wide bed of open'd roses.

And ready wit, of playful dealing;
Or-if some tale of grief betide-

As ready tear; which, while outstealing,
She-shyly still- attempts to hide.

RINGLETS.

RINGLETS are nets by Cupid spread, And such will Abra's prove to thee. So strong the mesh, tho' fine the thread, In vain you'll struggle to be free.

But, soon, like fresh-snared falcon bold, Who, fierce at first, his plumage swells, You too shall learn to love the hold

Of lady's leash and hood-and bells.

Or would you

flee? She smiles: secure,

That, though awhile escaped the chain,

You'll still be watching for the lure

To perch upon her wrist again.

ON A PICTURE.

THIS pictured work, with ancient graces fraught, (Or so they say) Albertinelli wrought.

He who that touching piece achieved, where meet

The Sisters twain, in Visitation sweet.

Of which the Tuscan city, 'mid her crowd

Of miracles, e'en yet is justly proud.

Oh! matchless line of

years, whose generous strife

Reared the reviving arts to perfect life.

Then Petrarch's native lay refined on love;

Then Angelo the impetuous chisel drove;

Then oracles, that stirred young Raphael's breast,

Spoke forth in colours, clear as words, exprest.

Thou too, the pencil's scarce less gifted seer,

Fair is the dream thy hand interprets here.

How sweet yon infant Christ's down-beaming smile On bright Saint John; who lifts his own the while! That bliss of young maternity how sweet!

Where mildly mingling Saint and Mother meet.

Nay, more than mother's rapture; to behold

Her Saviour-Son, by prophet-bards foretold.

Or, if adoring meekness e'er had shrine
In human face, Fond Catherine! 'tis in thine.
In that one present joy of all possest;
Heedless of Future; and by Past-unprest.

But Her's, who stands a-near that elder boy,Margaret's-I ween is no untroubled joy.

In Her, methinks, the painter's hand hath sought Meanings to plant of more than common thought.