Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame, fresh and gory:
We carved not a line,-we raised not a stone,
But left him alone in his glory.
Blackwood's Magazine.
BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.
BENEATH the' shelter of a mighty hill,
Whose marble peaks were garlanded with vine, And musical with many a sunny rill,
That thro' its purple, clustered shades did twine, Bright as a summer serpent's golden spine,
Leaned a low temple, in the sweet, gray gloom,
Hoary with moss, like Age in calm decline.
With, here and there, a rose's lingering bloom,
Wreathed loving round its brow;-that temple is a tomb!
There sleeps the Mantuan! There the subtlest hand
That ever wakened Passion's lyre, is laid.
Oh! Master-genius of thy glorious Land!
When when shall Italy her tresses braid
With the bright flowers, that round thy forehead played?
When flash to Heaven the ancient sword of Rome?
Come from thy rest, and call her Mighty shade!
No! Vice, the worm, has fed upon her bloom!
Look not upon the slave; sleep, Virgil, in thy tomb!
New Times.
Ir the innocent are favourites of Heaven ;-
And God but little asks where little's given,
Thy great Creator hath for thee in store
Eternal joys.-What wise man can have more?
BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.
THERE is a radiance in the sky,
A flush of gold, and purple dye!
Night lingers in the west; the sun
Floats on the sea.-The day's begun.
The wave, slow swelling to the shore,
Gleams on the green like silver ore;
The grove, the cloud, the mountain's brow,
Are burning in the crimson glow;
Yet all is silence,-till the gale
Shakes its rich pinions from the vale.
It is a lovely hour!-Though heaven
Had ne'er to man his partner given,
That thing of beauty, fatal, fair,
Bright, fickle,-child of flame and air;
Yet such an hour, such skies above,
Such earth below, had taught him love.
But there are sounds along the gale,-
Not murmurs of the grot or vale,—
Yet wild, and sweet, as ever stole
To soothe their twilight wanderer's soul.
It comes from yonder jasmine bower,
From yonder mosque's enamelled tower,
From yonder harem's roof of gold,
From yonder castle's haughty hold!
Oh, strain of witchery! whoe'er
That heard thee, felt not joy was near?
My soul shall in the grave be dim
Ere it forgets that bridal hymn.
'Twas such a morn, 'twas such a tone
That woke me ;-visions! are you gone?
The flutes breathe nigh,-the portals now
Pour out the train, white veiled, like snow
Upon its mountain summit spread, In splendour beyond man's rude tread! And o'er their pomp, emerging far, The bride, like morning's virgin star, And soon along the eve may swim The chorus of the bridal hymn; Again the bright processions move To take the last sweet veil from Love. Then speed thee on, thou glorious sun! Swift rise,-swift set,-be bright-and done. Literary Gazette.
THEY fell devoted, but undying;
The very gale their names seemed sighing;
The waters murmured of their name;
The woods were peopled with their fame ;
The silent pillar, lone and gray,
Claimed kindred with their sacred clay;
Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain;
Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain;
The meanest rill, the mightiest river,
Rolled, mingled with their fame, for ever.
Despite of every yoke she bears,
That land is Glory's still, and their's!
"Tis still a watch-word to the earth;-
When man would do a deed of worth,
He points to Greece, and turns to tread,
So sanctioned, on the tyrant's head;
He looks to her, and rushes on
Where life is lost or freedom won.
Liberal.
BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.
HOUR of an Empire's overthrow!
The Princes from the feast were gone,
The Idol flame was burning low ;-
"Twas midnight upon Babylon.
That night the feast was wild and high ;
That night was Sion's gold profaned;
The seal was set to blasphemy;
The last deep cup of wrath was drained.
'Mid jewelled roof and silken pall,
Belshazzar on his couch was flung;
A burst of thunder shook the ball-
He heard-but 'twas no mortal tongue :-
6 King of the East, the trumpet calls,
That calls thee to a tyrant's grave;
A curse is on thy palace walls-
A curse is on thy guardian wave;
'A surge is in Euphrates' bed,
That never filled its bed before; A surge, that, ere the morn be red, Shall load with death its haughty shore.
'Behold a tide of Persian steel!
A torrent of the Median car;
Like flame their gory banners wheel;
Rise, King, and arm thee for the war!"'
Belshazzar gazed; the voice was past-
The lofty chamber filled with gloom;
But, echoed on the sudden blast,
The rushing of a mighty plume.
He listened; all again was still;
He heard no chariot's iron clang ;-
He heard the fountain's gushing rill,
The breeze that through the roses sang.
He slept-in sleep wild murmurs came;
A visioned splendour fired the sky;
He heard Belshazzar's taunted name;—
He heard again the Prophet cry—
'Sleep, Sultan ! 'tis thy final sleep ;
Or wake, or sleep, the guilty dies.
The wrongs of those who watch and weep,
Around thee and thy nation rise.'
He started, 'mid the battle's yell,
He saw the Persian rushing on;
He saw the flames around him swell :-
Thou'rt ashes! King of Babylon.
New Times.
BY WILLIAM READ, ESQ.
LONG years have passed, pale flowers, since you
Were culled, and given in brightest bloom,
By one whose eyes eclipsed your blue,
Whose breath was like your own perfume.
Long years-but though your bloom be gone, The fragrance, which your freshness shed, Survives, when memory lingers on,
When all that blessed its birth have fled.
Those hues and hopes will pass away:
Thus youth, and bloom, and bliss, depart;
Oh what is left when these decay!-
The faded leaf, the withered heart!
London Magazine.
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