of ignoble cruelty and unequal contention. Away with the boaster who never joins in action, but, like a cormorant, hovers over the field, to feed upon the wounded, and overwhelm the dying. True bravery is as remote from rashness as from hesitation; let us counsel coolly, but let us execute our counselled purposes determinately. In power we have learnt, by that experiment which lost us Heaven, that we are inferior to the Thunder-bearer; In subtlety-in subtlety alone we are his equals. Open war is impossible.

Thus we shall pierce our Conqueror, through the race
Which as himself he loves; thus if we fall,
We fall not with the anguish, the disgrace,
Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call
Of vengeance rings within me! Warriors all,
The word is vengeance, and the spur despair.

Away with coward wiles!--Death's coal-black pall
Be now our standard!-Be our torch, the glare
Of cities fir'd! our fifes, the shrieks that fill the air!

Him answering rose Mecashpim, who of old,
Far in the silence of Chaldea's groves,
Was worshipp'd, God of Fire, with charms untold
And mystery. His wandering spirit roves,
Now vainly searching for the flame it loves,
And sits and mourns like some white robed sire,

Where stood his temple, and where fragrant cloves And cinnamon upheap'd the sacred pyre,

And nightly magi watch'd the everlasting fire.

He wav'd his robe of flame, he cross'd his breast,
And sighing-his papyrus scarf survey'd,

Woven with dark characters; then thus address'd

The troubled counsel.

I.

Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme
With self-rewarding toil;-thus far have sung
Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem

The lyre, which I in early days have strung;
And now my spirits faint, and I have hung
The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour,

On the dark cypress! and the strings which rung With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er, Or when the breeze comes by moan and are heard no more.

And must the harp of Judah sleep again,
Shall I no more re-animate the lay!

Oh! thou who visitest the sons of men,
Thou who dost listen when the humble pray,
One little space prolong my mournful day!
One little lapse suspend thy last decree!

I am a youthful traveller in the way,

And this slight boon would consecrate to thee,

Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free.

PROSE COMPOSITIONS.

VOL. II.