O'er the seven hills I see destruction spread,
And Empire's widow veils with dust her head!
Her gods forsake each desolated shrine,
ller 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 sleepst thou, Roman? Son of Victory, rise!
Wake to obey the 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!

99

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
The unwelcome messenger of harsh commands,
Whose faltering 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
Language, where all the 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!”

[The beautiful constellation of the Cross is seen only in the southern hemisphere. The follow ing lines are supposed to be addressed to it by a Spanish traveller in South America.]

IN the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread,
Where savannahs, in boundless magnificence, spread,
And bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on high,
The far Cordilleras unite with the sky.

The fir-tree waves o'er me, the fire-flies' red light
With its quick-glancing splendor illumines the night;
And I read in each tint of the skies and the earth
How distant my steps from the land of my birth.

But to thee, as thy lode-stars resplendently burn
In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I turn,
Bright Cross of the South! and beholding thee shine,
Scarce regret the loved land of the olive and vine.

Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main
My fathers unfolded the ensign of Spain,
And planted their faith in the regions that see
Its unperishing symbol emblazoned in thee.

How oft in their course o'er the ocean unknown,
Where all was mysterious, and awful, and lone,

Hath their spirit been cheered by thy light, when the deep
Reflected its brilliance in tremulous sleep!

As the vision that rose to the lord of the world,'
When first his bright banner of faith was unfurled;
Even such, to the heroes of Spain, when their prow
Made the billows the path of their glory, wert thou.

And to me, as I traversed the world of the west,
Through deserts of beauty in stillness that rest;
By forests and rivers untamed in their pride,
Thy hues have a language, thy course is a guide.
Shine on-my own land is a far distant spot,
And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it not;
And the eyes that I love, though e'en now they may be
O'er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on thee!

But thou to my thoughts are a pure-blazing shrine,
A fount of bright hopes, and of visions divine;
And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free,
Soars high o'er the Andes to mingle with thee.

THE SLEEPER OF MARATHON. | I woke-the sudden trumpet's blast

I LAY upon the solemn plain,

And by the funeral mound,

Where those who died not there in

vain,

Their place of sleep had found.

'Twas silent where the free blood
gushed,

When Persia came arraved-
So many a voice had there been hushed,
So many a footstep stayed.

I slumbered on the lonely spot
So sanctified by death:
I slumbered-but my rest was not
As theirs who lay beneath.

For on my dreams, that shadowy hour,
They rose-the chainless dead,-
All armed they sprang, in joy, in power,
Up from their grassy bed.

I saw their spears, on that red field,
Flash as in time gone by-
Chased to the seas without his shield,
I saw the Persian fly.

Called to another fight

From visions of our glorious past,
Who doth not wake in night

TO MISS F. A. L.

ON HER BIRTHDAY.

WHAT wish can friendship form for
thee,

What brighter star invoke to shine?
Thy path from every thorn is free,
And every rose is thine!

Life hath no purer joy in store,

Time hath no sorrow to efface;
Hope cannot paint one blessing more
Some hearts a boding fear might own,
Than memory can retrace!

Since many an eye by tears alone
Had Fate to them thy portion given,

Is taught to gaze on Heaven!
And there are virtues oft concealed,
Till roused by anguish from repose,
As odorous trees no balm will yield
Till from their wounds it flows.

1 Constantine.

ON THE DEATH OF HER MOTHER.

SAY not 'tis fruitless, nature's holy tear,
Shed by affection o'er a parent's bier!
By earthly sorrow strengthened for the skies,
Till the sad heart, whose pangs exalt its love,
With its lost treasure, seeks a home-above.

But grief will claim her hour,-and He, whose eye.
Looks pitying down on nature's agony,
He, in whose love the righteous calmly sleep,
Who bids us hope, forbids us not to weep!

He, too, hath wept-and sacred be the woes

Once borne by Him, their inmost source who knows,
Searches each wound, and bids His Spirit bring
Celestial healing on its dove-like wing!

And who but He shall soothe, when one dread stroke,
Ties, that were fibres of the soul, hath broke?
Oh! well may those, yet lingering here, deplore
The vanished light, that cheers their path no more!
The Almighty hand, which many a blessing dealt,
Sends its keen arrows not to be unfelt!

By fire and storm Heaven tries the Christian's worth,
And joy departs, to wean us from the earth,
Where still too long, with beings born to die,
Time hath dominion o'er Eternity.

Yet not the less, o'er all the heart hath lost,
Shall Faith rejoice when Nature grieves the most;
Then comes her triumph! through the shadowy gloom,
Her star in glory rises from the tomb,

Mounts to the day-spring, leaves the cloud below,
And gilds the tears that cease not yet to flow!
Yes, all is o'er! fear, doubt, suspense are fled,
Let brighter thoughts be with the virtuous dead!
The final ordeal of the soul is past,

And the pale brow is sealed to Heaven at last!1

And thou, loved spirit! for the skies mature,
Steadfast in faith, in meek devotion pure;
Thou that didst make the home thy presence blest,
Bright with the sunshine of thy gentle breast,
Where peace a holy dwelling-place had found,
Whence beamed her smile benignantly around;
Thou, that to bosoms widowed and bereft
Dear, precious records of thy worth hast left,
The treasured gem of sorrowing hearts to be,
Till Heaven recall surviving love to thee!
O cherished and revered fond memory well
On thee, with sacred, sad delight, may dwell!
So pure, so blest thy life, that death alone
Could make more perfect happiness thine own;
More blest than dew on Hermon's brow that falls,
Each drop to life some latent virtue calls;
Awakes some purer hope, ordained to rise,
He came thy cup of joy, serenely bright,
Full to the last, still flowed in cloudless light;
He came an angel, bearing from on high
The all it wanted-Immortality!

A DIRGE.

WEEP for the early lost!

How many flowers were mingled in the crown
Thus, with the lovely, to the grave gone down,
E'en when life promised most,

How many hopes have withered-they that bow
To Heaven's dread will, feel all its mysteries now.
Did the young mother's eye,
Behold her child, and close upon the day,
Ere from its glance the awakening spirit's ray
In sunshine could reply?—

· Then look for clouds to dim the fairest morn!
Oh! strong is faith, if woe like this be borne.

1 "Till we have sealed the scrvants of our God in their foreheads."-Rev. vii. 3.