All were alive, and made this sea
Of cities busy as a hill

Of summer ants, caught suddenly
In the overflowing of a rill.

Landed upon the isle, I soon

Through marble alleys and small groves
Of that mysterious palm she loves,
Reach'd the fair Temple of the Moon;
And there—as slowly through the last
Dim-lighted vestibule I pass'd-
Between the porphyry pillars, twin'd
With palm and ivy, I could see
A band of youthful maidens wind,
In measur'd walk, half dancingly,
Round a small shrine, on which was plac'd

That bird, whose plumes of black and white Were in their hue, by Nature trac'd,

A type of the moon's shadow'd light.

In drapery, like woven snow,

These nymphs were clad; and each, below
The rounded bosom, loosely wore

A dark blue zone, or bandelet,

With little silver stars all o'er,

As are the skies at midnight, set,
While in their tresses, braided through,
Sparkled that flower of Egypt's lakes,
The silvery lotus, in whose hue

As much delight the young Moon takes,
As doth the Day-God to behold
The lofty bean-flower's buds of gold.
And, as they gracefully went round
The worshipp'd bird, some to the beat
Of castanets, some to the sound

Of the shrill sistrum tim'd their feet;
While others, at each step they took,
A tinkling chain of silver shook.

They seem'd all fair-but there was one
On whom the light had not yet shone,
Or shone but partly-so downcast
She held her brow as slow she past.
And yet to me, there seem'd to dwell
A charm about that unseen face-
A something in the shade that fell

Over that brow's imagin'd grace,
Which won me more than all the best
Outshining beauties of the rest.
And her alone my eyes could see,
Enchain'd by this sweet mystery;
And her alone I watch'd, as round
She glided o'er that marble ground,
Stirring not more th' unconscious air
Than if a Spirit were moving there.
Till suddenly, wide open flew
The Temple's folding gates, and threw
A splendour from within, a flood
Of glory, where these maidens stood.
While, with that light-as if the same
Rich source gave birth to both—there came
A swell of harmony, as grand

As e'er was born of voice and hand,
Filling the gorgeous aisles around

With luxury of light and sound.

Then was it, by the flash that blaz’d
Full o'er her features-oh 'twas then,

As startingly her eyes she rais'd,

But quick let fall their lids again,
I saw not Psyche's self, when first
Upon the threshold of the skies
She paus'd, while heaven's glory burst
Newly upon her downcast eyes,
Could look more beautiful, or blush
With holier shame, than did this maid,
Whom now I saw, in all that gush
(109)

M

Of splendour from the aisles, display'd. Never though well thou know'st how much I've felt the sway of Beauty's starNever did her bright influence touch My soul into its depths so far; And had that vision linger'd there

One minute more, I should have flown,
Forgetful who I was and where,

And, at her feet in worship thrown,
Proffer'd my soul through life her own.

But, scarcely had that burst of light
And music broke on ear and sight,
Than up the aisle the bird took wing,
As if on heavenly mission sent,
While after him, with graceful spring,
Like some unearthly creatures, meant
To live in that mix'd element

Of light and song, the young maids went;
And she, who in my heart had thrown
A spark to burn for life, was flown.

In vain I tried to follow;-bands

Of reverend chanters fill'd the aisle:
Where'er I sought to pass, their wands
Motion'd me back, while many a file
Of sacred nymphs—but ah, not they
Whom my eyes look'd for—throng`d the way.
Perplex'd, impatient, 'mid this crowd
Of faces, lights—the o'erwhelming cloud
Of incense round me, and my blood
Full of its new-born fire-I stood,
Nor mov'd, nor breath'd, but when I caught
A glimpse of some blue, spangled zone,

Or wreath of lotus, which I thought,
Like those she wore at distance slione.

But no, 'twas vain-hour after hour,

Till my heart's throbbing turn'd to pain,

And my strain'd eyesight lost its power,
I sought her thus, but all in vain.
At length, hot-wilder'd--in despair,
I rush'd into the cool night-air,

And, hurrying (though with many a look
Back to the busy Temple), took
My way along the moonlight shore,
And sprung into my boat once more.

CHAPTER XII.

FOLITICAL ODES-LIFE OF BYRON-SUMMER FETE-PENSIONLATTER WORKS.

In 1828 Moore published "Odes on Cash, Corn, and Catholics," full of quaint hints and pointed allusions to the political topics of the day, which made his bright sallies of wit immensely popular at the time. Here is a verse which our readers might almost fancy was written by Hood:

"Now, Dantzic wheat before you floats—

Now, Jesuits from California—

Now Ceres, link'd with Titus Oats,

Comes dancing through the Porta Cornea,1

In The Periwinkles and the Locusts, a Salmagundian Hymn, founded on a sentence from Rabelais' story of Panurge, he thus hits at the financing of the govern

ment:

"The Salmagundian ones were rich,

Or thought they were no matter which-
For, every year, the Revenue

From their Periwinkles larger grew!

1 The Horn Gate, through which the ancients supposed all true dreams to

pass.

And their rulers, skill'd in all the trick
And legerdemain of arithmetic,
Knew how to place 1, 2, 3, 4,

5, 6, 7, 8, and 9 and 10,

Such various ways-behind, before,
That they made a unit seem a score

And proved themselves most wealthy men !

"So, on they went, a prosperous crew,
The people wise, the rulers clever-
And God help those like me and you
Who dared to doubt (as some now do)
That the Periwinkle Revenue

Would thus go flourishing on for ever.”

We cull the following amusing entries from his DIARY:

Breakfasting at Rogers', May 22, 1828.-"Luttrell's idea of the English climate,--' On a fine day, like looking up a chimney; on a rainy day, like looking down it.'"

27th May, 1828.-"Breakfasted at Rogers'. Anecdote of the Disputatious Man:-Why, it is as plain as that two and two make four.' 'But I deny that too; for 2 and 2 make twenty-two."

June 6, 1828.-"Talking of figurative oratory, mentioned the barrister before Lord Ellenborough. 'My lord, I appear before you in the character of an advocate from the city of London; the city of London herself appears before you as a suppliant for justice. My lord, it is written in the book of nature' 'What book?' says Lord E. 'The book of nature.' 'Name the page,' says Lord E., holding his pen uplifted, as if to note the page down."

6th July, 1828.-"Apropos of loss of friends, somebody was saying the other day, before Morgan, the great calculator of lives, that they had lost so many friends (men