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Along the horizon's verge display'd,
Still rear their slender colonnade
A landmark, guiding o'er the plain
The Caravan's exhausted train.
Fair is that little Isle of Bliss
The desert's emerald oasis!
A rainbow on the torrent's wave,
A gem embosom’d in the grave,
A sunbeam on a stormy day
Its beauty's image might convey!
• Beauty, in horror's lap that sleeps,
While silence round her vigil keeps.'
-Rest, weary pilgrims ! calmly laid
To slumber in the acacia shade:
Rest, where the shrubs your camels bruise,
Their aromatic breath diffuse ;
Where softer light the sunbeams pour
Through the tall palm and sycamore ;
And the rich date luxuriant spreads
Its pendant clusters o'er your heads.
Nature once more, to seal your eyes,
Murmurs her sweetest lullabies ;
Again each heart the music hails
of rustling leaves and sighing gales,
And oh! to Afric's child how dear
The voice of fountains gushing near!
Sweet be your slumbers ! and your dreams
Of waving groves and rippling streams!
Far be the serpent's venom'd coil
From the brief respite won by toil;
Far be the awful shades of those
Who deep beneath the sands repose
The hosts, to whom the desert's breath
Bore swift and stern the call of death.
Sleep! nor may scorching blast invade
The freshness of the acacia shade,
But gales of heaven your spirits bless,
With life's best balm-Forgetfulness!
Till night from many an urn diffuse
The treasures of her world of dews.

The day hath closed—the moon on high
Walks in her cloudless majesty.
A thousand stars to Afric's heaven
Serene magnificence have given;
Sure beacon's of the sky, whose flame
Phines forth eternally the same.
Blest be their beams, whose holy light
Shall guide the camel's footsteps right,
And lead, as with a track divine,
The pilgrim to his prophet's shrine !

Rise! bid your Isle of Palms adieu !
Again your lonely march pursue,
While airs of night are freshly blowing,
And heavens with softer beauty glowing.
-Tis silence all: the solemn scene
Wears, at each step, a ruder mien;
For giant-rocks, at distance piled,
Cast their deep shadows o'er the wild.
Darkly they rise—what eye hath view'd
The caverns of their solitude ?
Away! within those awful cells
The savage lord of Afric dwells !


his voice !--the lion's roar Swells as when billows break on shore. Well may the camel shake with fear, And the steed pant-his foe is near ; Haste ! light the torch, bid watchfires throw, Far o'er the waste a ruddy glow; Keep vigil-guard the bright array, Of flames that scare him from his prey; Within their magic circle press, O wanderers of the wilderness! Heap high the pile, and by its blaze Tell the wild tales of elder days. Arabia's wond'rous lore-that dwells On warrior deeds, and wizard spells; Enchanted domes, 'mid scenes like these, Rising to vanish with the breeze ; Gardens, whose fruits are gems, that shed Their light where mortal may not tread, And spirits, o'er whose pearly halls Th' eternal billow heaves and falls.

- With charms like these, of mystic power, Watchers! beguile the midnight hour. -Slowly that hour hath rolld away, And star by star withdraws its ray. Dark children of the sun! again Your own rich orient hails his reign. He comes, but veil'd—with sanguine glare Tinging the mists that load the air ; Sounds of dismay, and signs of flame, Th' approaching hurricane proclaim. "Tis death's red banner streams on highFly to the rocks for shelter !—fly! Lo! dark’ning o'er the fiery skies, The pillars of the desert rise ! On, in terrific grandeur wheeling, A giant-host, the heavens concealing, They move, like mighty genii forms, Towering immense 'midst clouds and storms. Who shall escape ?-with awful force The whirlwind bears them on their course;

They join, they rush resistless on,
The landmarks of the plain are gone ;
The steps, the forms, from earth effaced,
Of those who trod the burning waste !
All whelm'd, all hush'd none left to bear
Sad record how they perish'd there!
No stone their tale of death shall tell
The desert guards its mysteries well ;
And o'er th' unfathom'd sandy deep,
Where low their nameless relics sleep,
Oft shall the future pilgrim tread,
Nor know his steps are on the dead.


(“Marius, during the time of his exile, seeking refuge in Africa, had

landed at Carthage, when an officer, sent by the Roman governor of Africa, came and thus addressed him :-* Marius, I come from the Prætor Sextilius, to tell you that he forbids you to set foot in Africa. If you obey not, he will support the Senate's decree, and treat you as a public enemy." Marius, upon hearing this, was struck dumb with grief and indignation. He uttered not a word for some time, but regarded the officer with a menacing aspect. At length the officer enquired what answer he should carry to the governor. “Go and tell him," said the unfortunate man, with a sigh, “ that thou hast seen the exiled Marius sitting on the ruins of Carthage."-See PLUTARCH.

'Twas noon, and Afric's dazzling sun on high,
With fierce resplendence fill'd th' unclouded sky;
No zephyr waved the palm's majestic head,
And smooth alike the seas and deserts spread ;
While desolate, beneath a blaze of light,
Silent and lonely as at dead of night,
The wreck of Carthage lay. Her prostrate fanes
Had strew'd their precious marble o'er the plains ;
Dark weeds and grass the column had o'ergrown,
The lizard bask'd upon the altar-stone ;
Whelm'd by the ruins of their own abodes,
Had sunk the forms of heroes and of gods ;
While near, dread offspring of the burning day !
Coil'd 'midst forsaken halls, the serpent lay.

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There came an exile, long by fate pursued,
To shelter in that awful solitude.
Well did that wanderer's high yet faded mien,
Suit the sad grandeur of the desert-scene;
Shadow'd, not veild, by locks of wintry snow
Pride sat, still mighty, on his furrow'd brow
Time had not quench'd the terrors of his eye,
Nor tamed his glance of fierce ascendency;
While the deep meaning of his features told,
Ages of thought had o'er his spirit rolld,
Nor dimm’d the fire that might not be controll'd;
And still did power invest his stately form,
Shatter'd, but yet unconquerd, by the storm.

But slow his step-and where, not yet o’erthrown
Still tower'd a pillar ’midst the waste alone,
Faint, with long toil, his limbs he laid,
To slumber in its solitary
He slept—and darkly, on his brief repose,
Th’indignant genius of the scene arose.
Clouds robed his dim unearthly form, and spread
Mysterious gloom around his crownless head,
Crownless, but regal still. With stern disdain,
The kingly shadow seem'd to list his chain,
Gazed on the palm, his ancient sceptre torn,
And his eye kindled with immortal scorn!

“ And sleep'st thou, Roman?” cry'd his voice austere
“Shall son of Latium find a refuge here?
Awake! arise ! to speed the hour of Fate,
When Rome shall fall, as Carthage desolate!
Go! with her children's flower, the free, the brave,
People the silent chambers of the grave ;
So shall the course of ages yet to be,
More swiftly wast the day, avenging me!

“ Yes, from the awful gulf of years to come,
I hear a voice that prophesies her doom ;
I see the trophies of her pride decay,
And her long line of triumphs pass away,
Lost in the depths of time--while sinks the star
That led her march of heroes from afar!
Lo! from the frozen forests of the north,
The sɔns of slaughter pour in myriads forth.
Who shall awake the mighty ?-will thy woe,
City of thrones! disturb the realms below?
Call on the dead to hear thee! let thy cries
Suminon their shadowy legions to arise,
Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls !
--Barbarians revel in their ancient halls,
And their lost children bend the subject knee,
'Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the free.

Bird of the sun! dread eagle ! borne on high,
A creature of the empyreal-Thou, whose eye
Was lightning to the earth-whose pinion waved
In haughty triumph o’er a world enslaved ;
Sink from thy Heavens! for glory's noon is o'er,
And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more!
Closed is thy regal course—thy crest is torn,
And thy plume banish'd from the realms of morn.
The shaft hath reach'd thee ?--rest with chiefs and kings,
Who conquer'd in the shadow of thy wings;
Sleep! while thy foes exult around their prey,
And share thy glorious heritage of day!
“But darker years shall mingle with the past,
And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last.
O'er the seven hills I see destruction spread,
And Empire's widow veils with dust her head !
Her gods forsake each desolated shrine,
Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine:
'Midst fallen palaces she sits alone,
Calling heroic shades from ages gone,
Or bids the nations 'midst her deserts wait
To learn the fearful oracles of Fate!

"Still sleep’st thou, Roman? Son of Victory, rise !
Wake to obey th' avenging Destinies!
Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country's blood
Shall swell and darken Tiber's yellow flood !
My children's manès call-awake! prepare
The feast they claim !-exult in Rome's despair !
Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries,
Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies;
Let carnage revel, e'en her shrines among,
Spare not the valiant, pity not the young!
Haste ! o'er her hills the sword's libation shed,
And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head

The vision flies—a mortal step is near,
Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer's ear;
He starts, he wakes to woe-before him stands
Th’ unwelcome messenger of harsh commands,
Whose falt'ring accents tell the exiled chief,
To seek on other shores a home for grief.
-Silent the wanderer sat--but on his cheek
The burning glow far more than words might speak;
And, from the kindling of his eye, there broke
Langurge; where all th' indignant soul awoke,
Till his deep thought found voice then, calmly stern,
And sovereign in despair, he cried, “ Return !
Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen
Marius, the exile. rest where Carthage once hath been !"

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