Ah Zelica! there was a time when, blisi Shone o'er thy heart from every look of his; When but to see him, hear him, breathe the air In which he dwelt, was thy soul's fondest prayer! When round him hung such a perpetual spell, Whate'er he did, none ever did so well. Too happy days! when if he touch'd a flower, Or gem of thine, 'twas sacred from that hour; When thou didst study him, till every tone, And gesture, and dear look became thy own; Thy voice like his; the changes of his face In thine reflected with still lovelier grace, Like echo, sending back sweet music, fraught With twice the aerial sweetness it had brought!
Moore.
EXTRACT FROM A TRANSLATION OF AN IRISH ODI.
Pulse of my beating heart, shall all My hopes of thee and peace be fled ? Unheeded wilt thou hear me fall ? Unpitied wilt thou see me dead ? I'll make a cradle of rny breast, Thy image dear its ihild shall be; My throbbing heart shall rock to rest Those cares which waste my life and me.
Distance, in truth, produces in idea the same
