Thou Genius of Slavery! with pestilent breath

Thou night-angel! compass their armies about; That the swords which have pierced Gallia's eagle to death,

At the lily of Bourbon may fear to flash out.

Shout, shout, Imperator! Magnanimous Czar!
Protector of nations! thy triumph's complete,
Or shall be, when quenched is the patriot's star,
When the last pulse of liberty ceases to beat.

SCIO.-1822.

BEAUTIFUL Scio! thou wast fair,
Gem of the Archipelago!
Thou shonest like morning's lovely star
Rivalling its sisters;-thine the glow
Of skies, deliciously serene,

Along thy vales the evergreen
The vine and olive flourished,—

Thy maidens dwelt with innocence,
Thy young men, Liberty had nourished,
Her proud invincible defence;
Beautiful Scio! thou wast fair,

Gem of the Archipelago!

At morn, a voice was heard in thee,
It was the voice of gladness,-
The star of peace arose on thee,
'Tis shrouded now in sadness!

Star of the Grecian! thou hast set
In darkness, o'er yon Eden-isle;
Thine altars fall'n, the minaret

Rises o'er tears, and blood, and spoil! And thou art now a hideous wild

Where reckless Ruin drives its share O'er hapless mother and the child; Beautiful Scio! once so fair, Gem of the Archipelago!

I LOVE THE BOSOM THAT CAN FEEL.

I LOVE the bosom that can feel

The griefs which mortals know; I love the lip whose accents heal The wounds of tearful wo.

The eye that beams with pity's gem,
Is bright to every view;

Its lustre shades the diadem,
Or ruby's sparkling hue.

In forms that fly to misery's aid,
To dry the orphan's tear-
Are winning grace and ease displayed,
Unrivalled by compeer.

Sweet is Apollo's silver strain,

And Sappho's melting air,

Sweeter the words that soften pain,
And banish sad despair.

Woman! while these unite in thee,
We own thy magic skill;

And every heart though proudly free,
Is vanquished at thy will.

WHY WEEPEST THOU?

DOTH gloomy fate with sullen frown
Consume thy soul with care?

Hast thou the draught of misery known
Whose dregs are dark despair?
Art thou oppressed with sorrow's doom,
Thy heart with anguish torn?

O, soon that sad and cheerless gloom
Shall wake a brighter morn:

Then why should sorrow wring thy brow?
Say, mourner say, "why weepest thou?"

Doth tender love bedeck the bier,
Is dust with dust inurned?

Has one, affection prized most dear,
To heaven and God returned?

The beauteous flower that charms the

eye,

And decks the smiling plain,

With winter's blast doth fade and die,
But dies to bloom again;

Then why should sorrow wring thy brow?
Say mourner, say, "why weepest thou?"

AND I SAID, O THAT I HAD WINGS LIKE A DOVE, FOR
THEN WOULD I FLY AWAY AND BE AT REST.-DAVID.

THE Soul that wings her airy flight
To yonder fields of starry blue,
With rapture greets empyrion light,
And basks in pleasures ever new;
And if enthroned in bliss above,
She bends a lingering look below,
Doth not some throb of pity move,
For those that tread this vale of wo?

O! could I stretch my pathless way

To climes afar, how small would seem
The griefs that cloud this feeble day,
The joys that gild life's passing dream:
Then would I smile-the secret tear,

If tear might wet those courts of joy,
Would flee, and love, serene, endear
The angel bliss that ne'er can cloy.

Yet, courage! though the angry storm
Hath spent its force around thy head;
Though sorrow lurks in every form,
And all but trembling hope hath fled:

Yet burns there still a steady ray,

For those that weep in sunless gloom, The Star that points the wanderer's way, RELIGION-shines beyond the tomb!

YEARS PAST-YEARS TO COME.

YEARS! ended years! tell us, were not
Your moments given, that man might soon,
Valued and used, without a blot,

Or blush, restore the gracious boon?

Yet is the glorious gift defiled

With deep-writ characters of shame; Lust of the world, and passion wild, And mad ambition's guilty flame.

Where harps and hymns of beauty sound
Ye're gone, earth's discord to declare;
And in eternity is found

Each wasted hour, a witness there.

Yea, and a ransom is not known,

Nor bribe, to rescue moments fled; All else redeem! but these, once flown, We may not they are with the dead.

Departed hours! and must ye die?

None rescued, of ye all, for God;