ART THOU THE MAID?
Art thou the maid from whose blue eye
Mine drank such deep delight?
Was thine that voice of melody
Which charm'd the silent night?
I fain would think thou art not she
Who hung upon mine arm,
When love was yet a mystery,
A sweet, resistless charm.
It seemed to me as though the spell
On both alike were cast;
I prayed but in thy sight to dwell,
For thee, to breathe my last.
Mine inmost secret soul was thine,
Thou wert enthroned therein,
Like sculptured saint in holy shrine,
All free from guile and sin.
And, heaven forgive! I did adore
With more than pilgrim's zeal;
And then thy smile——But oh! no more!
No more may I reveal.
Enough—we're parted——Both must own
The accursed power of gold.
I wander through the world alone;
Thou hast been bought and sold.
Blackwood's Magazine.
It would be a very pleasant thing, if literary productions could be submitted to something like chemical analysis,—if we could separate the merit of a book, as we can the magnesia of Epsom salts, by a simple practical application of the doctrine of affinities.