("Si J''Tais La Feuille.") [Xxii., September, 1828.] Oh! Were I The Leaf That The Wind Of The West, His Course Through The Forest Uncaring; To Sleep On The Gale Or The Wave'S Placid Breast In A Pendulous Cradle Is Bearing. All Fresh With The Morn'S Balmy Kiss Would I Haste, As The Dewdrops Upon Me Were Glancing; When Aurora Sets Out On The Roseate Waste, And Round Her The Breezes Are Dancing. On The Pinions Of Air I Would Fly, I Would Rush Thro' The Glens And The Valleys To Quiver; Past The Mountain Ravine, Past The Grove'S Dreamy Hush, And The Murmuring Fall Of The River. By The Darkening Hollow And Bramble-Bush Lane, To Catch The Sweet Breath Of The Roses; Past The Land Would I Speed, Where The Sand-Driven Plain 'Neath The Heat Of The Noonday Reposes. Past The Rocks That Uprear Their Tall Forms To The Sky, Whence The Storm-Fiend His Anger Is Pouring; Past Lakes That Lie Dead, Tho' The Tempest Roll Nigh, And The Turbulent Whirlwind Be Roaring. On, On Would I Fly, Till A Charm Stopped My Way, A Charm That Would Lead To The Bower; Where The Daughter Of Araby Sings To The Day, At The Dawn And The Vesper Hour. Then Hovering Down On Her Brow Would I Light, 'Midst Her Golden Tresses Entwining; That Gleam Like The Corn When The Fields Are Bright, And The Sunbeams Upon It Shining. A Single Frail Gem On Her Beautiful Head, I Should Sit In The Golden Glory; And Prouder I'd Be Than The Diadem Spread Round The Brow Of Kings Famous In Story. V., Eton Observer.