AN INCIDENT.

The sighs of summer night, were sweet without,

As the breath of spirits, on the folded roses,

The sweet moon, like a young and timid bride,

Came softly trembling through the eastward oaks—

Where I espied a Glorious Beauty standing,

Glowing and bright, in a portico vine-wreathed.

Shaken by wrestling Hope and Doubt within,

I quickly slid unto her side; and she