As Memnon, like a trembling string When the Sun, with rising ray Streaked the lonely desert grey, Sent forth its magic murmuring, That just was heard, then died away;
So passed, oh! Thebes! thy morning pride! Thy glory was the sound that died!
Dark city of the desolate,
Once thou wert rich, and proud, and great! This busy-peopled isle was then
A waste, or roamed by savage men Whose gay descendants now appear To mark thy wreck of glory here.
Phantom of that city old, Whose mystic spoils I now behold, A kingdom's sepulchre,-oh say, Shall Albion's own illustrious day, Thus darkly close? Her power, her fame Thus pass away, a shade, a name?— The Mausoleum murmured as I spoke ;
A spectre seemed to rise, like towering smoke; It answered not, but pointed as it fled
To the black carcase of the sightless dead. Once more I heard the sounds of earthly strife, And the streets ringing to the stir of life. Literary Gazette.
I saw a falling leaf soon strew
The soil to which it owed its birth:
I saw a bright star falling too
But never reach the quiet earth.
Such is the lowly portion blest,
Such is ambition's foiled endeavour;
The falling leaf is soon at rest,
While stars that fall, fall on for ever!
HELVELLYN! blue Helvellyn! Hill of hills! Giant amongst the giants! Lift thy head Broad in the sun-light! no loose vapour dims Thy barren grandeur; but, with front severe, Calm, proud, and unabashed, thou look'st upon The heights around the lake and meadows green, Whereon the herded cattle, tiny things, Like flowers upon the sunny landscape lie; Behind thee cometh quick the evening pale, Whilst in the west an amphitheatre
Of crags (such as the Deluge might have washed In vain,) against the golden face of heaven Turns its dark shoulder, and insults the day.
With no imposing air, no needless state, Thou risest, blue Helvellyn ;—no strange point Lends thee distinction, no fantastic shape Marks thee a thing whereon the mind must rest; But in thine own broad height, peerless and vast, Leviathan of mountains! thou art seen Fairly ascending, amidst crags and hills The mightiest one,-associate of the sky!
I see thee again, from these bleak sullen moors, Boundless and bare,-long, dreary, wintry wastes, Where the red waters lie stagnant, amidst Black rocks, and treacherous moss, and rushes white With age, or withered by the bitter blast ;- Thou lookest out on thy huge limbs that lie Sleeping far, far beneath; and on the plains Below, and heaven which scarcely o'er thy head Lifts its blue arch; and on the driven clouds That loiter round thee, or impetuous burst About thy summit with their stormy showers.
There, in thy lonely state, thou livest on
Through days, and years, and ages,--still the same Unshaken, undecaying :— :-not alone
A thing material haply, for within
Thy heart a secret spirit may now abide;
The same that fills thy veins in spring with green, And hangs around thee long the summer thyme; And when the winds of Autumn moan away Solemn and sad, from thy supremest brow Poureth the white stream bright and beautiful.
The winds!—are they thy music? (who shall say Thou hearest not!)—Thy echoes, which restore The rolling thunder fainting fast away,
From death to a second life seem now, methinks, Not mere percussions of the common air, But imitations high of mightier sense-
Of some communicable soul that speaks
From the most inward earth, abroad to men And mountains, bird and beast, and air and Heaven. London Magazine.
CALM is the tenor of my way, Not hurried on with furious haste, Nor raised aloft in proud display : Pure too the tribute of my urn, With constant flow, not idle waste, Offering to him who sends the rain, By serving man, the best return. A course like mine thy trials o'er Those living waters will attain,
Which he who drinks shall thirst no more.
Ye fixed, oh ye brave! when for us ye died, On every heart an endless claim;
When ye sank in the battle's blood-red tide, Ye bought by your death a deathless name; More great than the warriors of ages gone,— More great than the heroes of Marathon: They from one land, a tyrant hurled ;— Ye crushed the tyrant of the world. The hour that stayed your course for ever, Checked many a gay heart's joyous swell; Sweet hopes were nipt, to blossom never, When, smote in Glory's lap, you fell.
The patriot to the hero's claim, Bows his proud soul, with grief opprest; But there are those, with whom his name Is still more loved, more fondly blest; For wheresoe'er we cast our eyes, This wide extended plain around, The Father, Brother, Husband lies Beneath the undulating mound.
How many an eye, ye truly brave! Has thanked you for the lives you gave! Ye fondly loved! how many a tear, Has witnessed to your virtues here! Call not the warrior's grave unblest, Though 'mid this silent solitude, The grey stone rise not o'er his breast, Ner holy pile may here be viewed.
There is a charm more sweet,-more pure
Than human art has ever thrown;
Yes, there are records, more secure
Than marble bust, or sculptured stone ;
The gentle sigh of sorrowing love, The hapless mourner's silent tear, Shall here that better guerdon prove, That holier calm, shall whisper here.
When Egypt's tombs shall all be rent, And earth's proud temples swept away, Your deeds, a deathless monument !- Shall guard your glory from decay.
My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea;
Yet ere I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee.
Here's a sigh for those I love,
And a smile for those I hate,.
And, whatever sky's above,
Here's a heart for any fate.
Though the ocean roar around me, It still shall bear me on; Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won.
Were it the last drop in the well, As I gasped upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirits fell,
"Tis to thee that I would drink.
In that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour
Should be Peace to thee and thine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore ! Morning Chronicle.
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