And flowery bridges o'er them loosely throws ;-
Who hangs the canvass where Atala glows,
On the live oak, in floating drapery shrouded,
That like a mountain rises, lightly clouded;-
Who, for the son of Outalissi, twines,
Beneath the shade of ever whispering pines,
A funeral wreath, to bloom upon the moss,
That Time already sprinkles on the cross,
Rais'd o'er the grave, where his young virgin sleeps,
And Superstition o'er her victim weeps ;—

Whom now,
the silence of the dead surrounds,
Among Scioto's monumental mounds;
Save that, at times, the musing pilgrim hears
A crumbling oak fall with the weight of years,
To swell the mass, that Time and Ruin throw,
O'er chalky bones, that mouldering lie below,
By virtues unembalm'd, unstain'd by crimes,
Lost in those towering tombs of other times;
For where no bard has cherish'd Virtue's flame,
No ashes sleep in the warm sun of Fame.-
With sacred lore, this traveller beguiles

His

weary way, while o'er him Fancy smiles. Whether he kneels in venerable groves,

Or through the wide and green savanna roves,

His heart leaps lightly on each breeze, that bears The faintest cadence of Idumea's airs.

Now, he recalls the lamentable wail,

That pierc'd the shades of Rama's palmy vale16
When Murder struck, thron'd on an infant's bier,
A note, for Satan's, and for Herod's ear.
Now, on a bank, o'erhung with waving wood,
Whose falling leaves flit o'er Ohio's flood,
The pilgrim stands; and o'er his memory rushes
The mingled tide of tears, and blood, that gushes
Along the valleys, where his childhood stray'd,
And round the temples where his fathers pray'd.
How fondly then, from all but Hope exil'd,
To Zion's wo recurs Religion's child!

He sees the tear of Judah's captive daughters
Mingle, in silent flow, with Babel's waters;
While Salem's harp, by patriot pride unstrung,
Wrapp'd in the mist, that o'er the river hung,
Felt but the breeze, that wanton'd o'er the billow,
And the long, sweeping fingers of the willow.

And could not Musick sooth the captive's wo?— But should that harp be strung for Judah's foe?

While thus the enthusiast roams along the stream, Balanc'd between a revery and a dream,

Backward he springs: and, through his bounding

heart,

The cold and curdling poison seems to dart.
For, in the leaves, beneath a quivering brake,
Spinning his death-note, lies a coiling snake,
Just in the act, with greenly venom'd fangs,
To strike the foot, that heedless o'er him hangs.
Bloated with rage, on spiral folds he rides ;
His rough scales shiver on his spreading sides;
Dusky and dim his glossy neck becomes,

And freezing poisons thicken on his gums;

His parch'd and hissing throat breathes hot and dry i A spark of hell lies burning on his eye :

While, like a vapour, o'er his writhing rings,

Whirls his light tail, that threatens while it sings.

Soon as dumb Fear removes her icy fingers
From off the heart, where gazing wonder lingers,
The pilgrim, shrinking from a doubtful fight,
Aware of danger, too, in sudden flight,

From his soft flute throws Musick's air around,
And meets his foe, upon enchanted ground.

See! as the plaintive melody is flung,

The lightning flash fades on the serpent's tongue; The uncoiling reptile o'er each shining fold Throws changeful clouds of azure, green and gold : A softer lustre twinkles in his eye;

His neck is burnished with a glossier dye;

His slippery scales grow smoother to the sight,
And his relaxing circles roll in light.—
Slowly the charm retires-with waving sides,
Along its track the graceful listner glides;
While Musick throws her silver cloud around,
And bears her votary off, in magick folds of sound.

On Arno's bosom, as he calmly flows, And his cool arms round Vallombrosa throws, Rolling his crystal tide through classick vales, Alone, at night,-the Italian boatman sails. High o'er Mont Alto walks, in maiden pride, Night's queen :-he sees her image on that tide, Now, ride the wave that curls its infant crest, Around his prow, then rippling sinks to rest; Now, glittering dance around his eddying oar, Whose every sweep is echoed from the shore; Now, far before him, on a liquid bed

Of waveless water, rest her radiant head.

How mild the empire of that virgin queen!

How dark the mountain's shade! how still the scene!
Hush'd by her silver sceptre, zephyrs sleep
On dewy leaves, that overhang the deep,
Nor dare to whisper through the boughs, nor stir
The valley's willow, nor the mountain's fir,
Nor make the pale and breathless aspen quiver,
Nor brush, with ruffling wing, that glassy river.

Hark! 'tis a convent's bell :-its midnight chime. For musick measures even the march of Time :O'er bending trees, that fringe the distant shore, Gray turrets rise :--the eye can catch no more. The boatman, listening to the tolling bell, Suspends his oar :--a low and solemn swell, From the deep shade, that round the cloister lies, Rolls through the air, and on the water dies. What melting song wakes the cold ear of Night? A funeral dirge, that pale nuns, rob'd in white, Chant round a sister's dark and narrow bed, To charm the parting spirit of the dead. Triumphant is the spell! with raptur'd ear, That uncaged spirit hovering lingers near ;~~