Bright 'midst its vineyards lay
The fair Campanian city, with its towers
And temples gleaming through dark olive-bowers,
Clear in the golden day;

Joy was around it as the glowing sky,
And crowds had fill'd its halls of revelry,
And all the sunny air was music's way.

A cloud came o'er the face Of Italy's rich heaven!—its crystal blue Was changed, and deepen'd to a wrathful hue Of night, o'ershadowing space,

As with the wings of death!-in all his power Vesuvius woke, and hurl'd the burning shower, And who could tell the buried city's place?

Such things have been of yore,
In the gay regions where the citrons blow,
And purple summers all their sleepy glow
On the grape-clusters pour ;

And where the palms to spicy winds are waving.
Along clear seas of melting sapphire, laving,
As with a flow of light, their southern shore.

Turn we to other climes!

Far in the Druid-Isle a feast was spread,
'Midst the rock-altars of the warrior dead :
And ancient battle-rhymes

Were chanted to the harp; and yellow mead
Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed,
And lofty songs of Britain's elder time;

But, ere the giant-fane

Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even, Hush'd were the bards, and in the face of heaven,

O'er that old burial plain

Flash'd the keen Saxon dagger!-Blood was streaming

Where late the mead-cup to the sun was gleaming,

And Britain's hearths were heap'd that night in vain

For they return'd no more!

They that went forth at morn with reckless

heart,

In that fierce banquet's mirth to bear their part;

And, on the rushy floor,

And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls, The high wood fires were blazing in their halls; But not for them-they slept-their feast was o'er!

Fear ye

the festal hour!

Aye, tremble when the cup of joy o'erflows! Tame down the swelling heart!-the bridal rose,

And the rich myrtle's flower

Have veil'd the sword! - Red wines have sparkled fast

From venom'd goblets, and soft breezes pass'd, With fatal perfume, through the revel's bower

Twine the young glowing wreath!
But pour not all your spirit in the song,
Which through the sky's deep azure floats along
Like summer's quickening breath!

The ground is hollow in the path of mirth:
Oh! far too daring seems the joy of earth,
So darkly press'd and girdled in by death!

THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.

SOUND on, thou dark unslumbering sea!
My dirge is in thy moan;
My spirit finds response in thee,
To its own ceaseless cry-" Alone, alone!"

Yet send me back one other word,

Ye tones that never cease!

Oh! let your secret caves be stirr'd,

And say, dark waters! will ye give me peace?

Away! my weary soul hath sought
In vain one echoing sigh,

One answer to consuming thought
In human hearts-and will the wave reply?

Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea!
Sound in thy scorn and pride!

I ask not, alien world, from thee,

What my own kindred earth hath still denied.

And yet I loved that earth so well

With all its lovely things!

-Was it for this the death wind fell

On my rich lyre, and quench'd its living strings?

-Let them lie silent at my feet!

Since broken even as they,

The heart whose music made them sweet,
Hath pour'd on desert-sands its wealth away.

Yet glory's light hath touch'd my name,
The laurel-wreath is mine—

With a lone heart, a weary frame

O restless deep! I come to make them thine!

Give place to that crown, that burning crown,

Place in thy darkest hold!

Bury my anguish, my renown,

With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold.

Thou sea-bird on the billow's crest,
Thou hast thy love, thy home;
They wait thee in the quiet nest,

And I, the unsought, unwatch'd-for-I too come!

I, with this wing'd nature fraught,
These visions wildly free,

This boundless love, this fiery thought—
Alone I come-oh! give me peace, dark sea'

IVAN THE CZAR.

He sat in silence on the ground,
The old and haughty Czar,
Lonely, though princes girt him round,
And leaders of the war:

He had cast his jewell'd sabre,

That many a field had won,

To the earth beside his youthful dead-
His fair and first-born son.

With a robe of ermine for its bed,
Was laid that form of clay,
Where the light a stormy sunset shed,
Through the rich tent made way;

And a sad and solemn beauty

On the pallid face came down, Which the Lord of nations mutely watch'd, In the dust, with his renown.

Low tones, at last, of woe and fear
From his full bosom broke-

A mournful thing it was to hear
How then the proud man spoke!
The voice that through the combat
Had shouted far and high,

Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones,
Burden'd with agony.