The arch upreared by nature's architect,

The architrave some earthquake might erect;
The buttress from some mountain's bosom hurled,
When the Poles crash'd and Water was the World;
Or harden'd from some earth-absorbing fire,

While yet the globe reeked from its funeral pyre;
The fretted pinnacle, the aisle, the nave,

Were there, all scooped by Darkness from her cave.
There, with a little tinge of Phantasy,
Fantastic faces moped and mowed on high,
And then a mitre or a shrine would fix
The eye upon its seeming crucifix.
Thus Nature played with the Stalactites,
And built herself a chapel of the Seas.

And Neuha took her Torquil by the hand,
And waved along the vault her kindled brand,
And led him into each recess, and showed
The secret places of their new abode.
Nor these alone, for all had been prepared
Before, to soothe the lover's lot she shared :
The mat for rest; for dress the fresh gnatoo,
And sandal oil to fence against the dew;
For food the cocoa-nut, the yam, the bread
Born of the fruit; for board the plantain spread
With its broad leaf, or turtle shell which bore
A banquet in the flesh it covered o'er;
The gourd with water recent from the rill,
The ripe banana from the mellow hill;
A pine-torch pile to keep undying light,
And she herself, as beautiful as Night,
To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the scene,
And make their subterranean world serene.
She had foreseen, since first the strangers' sail
Drew to their isle, that force or flight might fail,

And form'd a refuge of the rocky den
For Torquil's safety from his countrymen.
Each Dawn had wafted there her light canoe,
Laden with all the golden fruits that grew;
Each Eve had seen her gliding through the hour
With all could cheer or deck their sparry bower;
And now she spread her little store with smiles,
The happiest daughter of the loving isles.

She, as he gazed with grateful wonder, pressed
Her shelter'd love to her impassioned breast;
And suited to her soft caresses, told

An elden tale of Love-for Love is old-
Old as Eternity, but not outworn

With each new being born or to be born:
How a young Chief, a thousand moons ago,
Diving for turtle in the depths below,
Had risen, in tracking fast his ocean prey,
Into the cave which round and o'er them lay;
How, in some desperate feud of after time,
He shelter'd there a daughter of the clime,
A foe beloved, and offspring of a foe,
Saved by his tribe but for a captive's woe;
How, when the storm of war was still'd, he led
His island clan to where the waters spread
Their deep green shadow o'er the rocky door,
Then dived-it seemed as if to rise no more:
His wondering mates, amazed within their bark,
Or deem'd him mad, or prey to the blue shark
Row'd round in sorrow the sea-girded rock,
Then paused upon their paddles from the shock,
When, fresh and springing from the deep, they saw
A goddess rise-so deem'd they in their awe;
And their companion, glorious by her side,
Proud and exulting in his Mermaid bride;

And how, when undeceived, the pair they bore
With sounding conchs and joyous shouts to shore;
How they had gladly lived and calmly died,
And why not also Torquil and his bride ?
Not mine to tell the rapturous caress
Which follow'd wildly in that wild recess
This tale; enough that all within that cave
Was Love, though buried strong as in the grave
Where Abelard, through twenty years of death,
When Eloisa's form was lower'd beneath

Their nuptial vault, his arms outstretch'd, and prest The kindling ashes to his kindled breast*.

The waves without sang round their couch, their roar
As much unheeded as if life was o'er;

Within, their hearts made all their harmony,
Love's broken murmur and more broken sigh.

STANZAS.

Bright be the place of thy soul!

No lovelier spirit than thine
Ever burst from its mortal control,

In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
On earth thou wert all but divine,
As thy soul shall immortally be;
And our sorrow may cease to repine
When we know that thy God is with thee.

Light be the turf of thy tomb!

May its verdure like emeralds be:

* The tradition is attached to the story of Eloisa, that when her body was lowered into the grave of Abelard (who had been buried twenty years), he opened his arms to receive her.

There should not be the shadow of gloom,

In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see;

For why should we mourn for the blest?

STANZAS TO

Though the day of my destiny's over,
And the star of my fate hath declined,
Thy soft heart refused to discover

The faults which so many could find; Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, It shrunk not to share it with me,

And the love which my spirit hath painted
It never hath found but in thee.

Then when nature around me is smiling,
The last smile which answers to mine,
I do not believe it beguiling,

Because it reminds me of thine;

And when winds are at war with the ocean,
As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,
It is that they bear me from thee.

Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd,
And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd
To pain-it shall not be its slave.

There is many a pang to pursue me:

They may crush, but they shall not contemn They may torture, but shall not subdue me— 'Tis of thee that I think-not of them.

Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
Though`slander'd, thou never couldst shake,-
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,
Nor, mute, that the world might belie.
Yet I blame not the world nor despise it,
Nor the war of the many with one-
If my soul was not fitted to prize it,
'Twas folly not sooner to shun:
And if dearly that error hath cost me,
And more than I once could foresee,
I have found that, whatever it lost me,
It could not deprive me of thee.

SWIMMING.

Limbs! how often have they borne me

Bounding o'er yon blue tide, as I have skimmed
The gondola along in childish race,

And, masqued as a young gondolier, amidst
My gay competitors, noble as I,

Raced for our pleasure, in the pride of strength;
While the fair populace of crowding beauties,
Plebeian as patrician, cheer'd us on

With dazzling smiles, and wishes audible,
And waving kerchiefs, and applauding hands,
Even to the goal! How many a time have I
Cloven with arm still lustier, breast more daring,
The wave all roughen'd; with a swimmer's stroke
Flinging the billows back from my drench'd hair,
And laughing from my lip the audacious brine,
Which kiss'd it like a wine cup, rising o'er