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Some moments, aye, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power:
So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd,
The first, last look by death reveal'd!
Such is the aspect of this shore;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of feeling past away!
Sparks of that flame, which boasts of hea-
venly birth,

Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth.

ROME.

BYRON.

THE Niobe of nations! there she stands, Childless and crownless, in her voiceless

Wo;

An empty urn within her wither'd hands, Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago; The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; The very sepulchres lie tenantless

Of their heroic dwellers; dost thou flow, Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness? Rise with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress!

The goth, the christian, time, war, flood, and fire,

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And thou, dread statue!+ yet existent in
The austerest form of naked majesty,
Thou who beheldest,'mid the assassin's din,
At thy bathed base the bloody Cæsar lie,
Folding his robe in dying dignity,
An offering to thine altar from the queen
Of gods and men, great Nemesis? did he
die,

And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye been

Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a

pride;

She saw her glories star by star expire, And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, Where the car climb'd the capitol; far and wide

Temple and tower went down, nor left a scite :

Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void,

O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, And say, "here was, or is," where all is doubly night?

scene?

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome!

She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs im

part

The milk of conquest yet within the dome Where, as a monument of antique art,

* "I have found." + Statue of Pompey.

Thou standest mother of the mighty heart,

Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat,

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The forum, where the immortal accents glow

Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's etherial And still the eloquent air breathes-barns

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Oft, rising from the sea, the tempest lowers,

And buoy'd on winds, the clouds majestic sail,
Which scattering burst in wide and frequent showers,
Swelling the streams which glide thro' every vale;
Yet are the marshy plains bedeck'd with flowers,
And balmy sweets are borne on every gale.

Where Dart romantic winds its mazy course,

And mossy rocks adhere to woody hills,

From whence each creeping rill its store distils,
And wandering waters join with rapid force;
There Nature's hand has wildly strewn her flowers,
And varying prospects strike the roving eyes;
Rough-hanging woods o'er cultur'd hills arise;
Thick ivy spreads around huge antique towers;
And fruitful groves

Scatter their blossoms fast as falling showers,
Perfuming ev'ry stream which o'er the landscape pours.

Along the grassy banks how sweet to stray,

When the mild eve smiles in the glowing west,
And lengthen'd shades proclaim departing day,
And fainting sunbeams in the waters play,
When every bird seeks its accustom'd rest!
How grand to see the burning orb descend,
And the grave sky wrapp'd in its nightly robes;
Whether resplendent with the starry globes,
Or silver'd by the mildly-solemn moon,
When nightingales their lonely songs resume,
And folly's sons their babbling noise suspend !

Or when the darkening clouds fly o'er the sea
And early morning beams a cheerful ray,
Waking melodious songsters from each tree;
How sweet beneath each dewy hill
Amid the pleasing shades to stray,

Where nectar'd flowers their sweets distil,

Whose watery pearls reflect the day!
To scent the jonquil's rich perfume,
To pluck the hawthorn's tender briars,
As wild beneath each flowery hedge
Fair strawberries with violets bloom,

And every joy of spring conspires !

Nature's wild songsters from each bush and tree
Invite the early walk, and breathe delight:
What bosom heaves not with warm sympathy
When the gay lark salutes the new-born light?
Hark! where the shrill-ton'd thrush,

Sweet whistling, carols the wild harmony!
The linnet warbles, and from yonder bush

The robin pours soft streams of melody!

Hail, Devon

while through thy lov'd woods I stray,
O! let me loudly pour the grateful lay!

Tell each luxuriant bank where violets grow,
Each mazy vale, where fragrant woodbines wind,
How much of their bewitching charms they owe
To the sweet peace which fills my happy mind.
Ah! where again will it such pleasures find?
O, lov'd society! the heartfelt lay
Is all the humble Muse can now bestow;
Thy praises still I sing, as on I stray,
Writ in my heart amid each strain they flow.

BEAUTIES OF DEVON.

CARRINGTON.

FAIR are the provinces that England boasts, Lovely the verdure, exquisite the flowers, That bless her hills and dales,-her streamlets clear,

Her seas majestic, and her prospects all, Of old, as now the pride of British song! But England sees not on her charming map, A goodlier spot than our fine Devon;-rich Art thou in all that Nature's hand can give, Land of the matchless view! The tyrant Sun

Thy emerald bosom spares, for frequent showers

Drop from the voyaging and friendly cloud,
To cheer thy foliage, and to swell thy streams:
Hence all thy mountain torrents that descend
To stray in meads, as Tempe ever fair,
Thy noble rivers hence, and that rich robe
Of green, throughout the varying year which

clothes

The pleasant fields of thy Peninsula.

MOUNT EDGCUMBE.

CARRINGTON.

BUT 'tis not LOCAL PREJUDICE that

prompts

Broke on our infant eyes, or where our cot Uprises, render'd precious by long years Of residence, may throw illusive grace Upon the hills, the vales, the woods, the

streams

That do encircle it, but thou hast charms Enchanting mount, which not the LOCAL LOVE

Too highly values, or the genial West Alone enamour'd views, for thou art own'd Supreme in loveliness in this our isle, Profusely teeming with unrivall'd scenes!

Thine is the monarch oak, the sturdy growth

Of ages, long triumphant o'er decay;
And thine the venerable elm that loves,
Of old, to stand in stately row. Around
The chesnut throws its amplitude of shade,
And many a brave exotic too exults

In soil and clime all-fav'ring as its own.
Thine the grand CEDAR of enormous bough
And trunk stupendous,-scarcely Libanus
Outvies the giant stranger; by its side
Upshoots the sable CORK. The forest teems
With forms of majesty and beauty; some
As the light poplar bend with every sigh
Of Zephyr, and some scarely bend their
heads

For very mightiness, when wintry storms Are maddening the seas!

O when the breath

The lay, when EDGCUMBE is the inspiring Of Spring is on thy renovated hill,

theme!

Affection for one valued, honor'd, nook
Of Earth, where haply first the light of day

When all the buds are leaping into leaf, And the broad sheets of early foliage clothe Anew, thy waste of bough, delicious 'tis

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