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For thou, wed to misery from the womb Scarce one bright scene thy night of darkness

knew!

Oft when the moon-beam on the cold bank

sleeps, Where 'neath the dewy turf thy form is laid, In silent woe thy wretched mother weeps, By this lone tomb, and by this oak-tree's

shade.

There in the chilling bed of earth,

The chancel's letter'd stone above There sleepeth she who gave me birth,

Who taught my lips the hymn of love! Yon mossy stems of ancient oak,

So widely crown'd with sombre shade, Those ne'er have heard the woodman's stroke

Their solemn, secret depths invade. How oft the grassy way I've trod

That winds their knotty boles between, And gather'd from the blooming sod

The flowers that flourish'd there unseen I Rise! let us trace that path once more,

While o'er our track the cold beams shine; Down this low shingly vale, and o’er

Yon rude rough bridge of prostrate pine.

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MITHRIDATES PRESENTING BERENICE WITH THE CUP OF POISON

SOFT, shadowy moon-beam ! by thy light

Sleeps the wide meer serenely pale: How various are the sounds of night,

Borne on the scarcely-rising gale ! The swell of distant brook is heard,

Whose far-off waters faintly roll; And piping of the shrill small bird,

Arrested by the wand'ring owl. Come hither! let us thread with care

The maze of this green path, which binds The beauties of the broad parterre,

And thro' yon fragrant alley winds. Or on this old bench will we sit, Round which the clust'ring woodbine

wreathes; While birds of night around us flit;

And thro' each lavish wood-walk breathes, Unto my ravish'd senses, brought

From yon thick-woven odorous bowers, The still rich breeze, with incense franght

Of glowing fruits and spangled flowers. The whispering leaves, the gushing stream,

Where trembles the uncertain moon, Suit more the poet's pensive dream,

Than all the jarring notes of noon. Then, to the thickly-crowded mart

The eager sons of interest press; Then, shine the tinsel works of art

Now, all is Nature's loneliness ! Then, wealth aloft in state displays

The glittering of her gilded cars;
Now, dimly stream the mingled rays

Of yon far-twinkling, silver stars.
Yon church, whose cold grey spire appears

In the black outline of the trees,
Conceals the object of my tears,

Whose form in dreams my spirit gees.

OH! Berenice, lorn and lost,
This wretched soul with shame is bleed.

ing:
Ob! Berenice, I am tost

By griefs, like wave to wave succeeding. Fall'n Pontus ! all her fame is gone,

And dim the splendour of her glory; Low in the west her evening sun,

And dark the Instre of her story. Dead is the wreath that round her brow

The glowing hands of Honour braided; What change of fate can wait her now,

Her sceptre spoil'd, her throne degraded ? And wilt thou, wilt thou basely go,

My love, thy life, thy country shaming, In all the agonies of woe, Mid madd’ning shouts, and standard, ilam

ing? And wilt thou, wilt thou basely go,

Proud Rome's triumphal car adorning? Hark! hark! I hear thee answer No!'

The proffer'd life of thraldom scorning. Lone, crownless, destitute, and poor,

My heart with bitter pain is burning; So thick a cloud of night hangs o'er,

My daylight into darkness turning. Yet though my spirit, bow'd with ill,

Small hope froin future fortune borrows; One glorious thought shall cheer me still,

That thou art free from abject sorrows —

Art free for ever from the strife

Of slavery's pangs and tearful anguish; For life is death, and death is life,

To those whose limbs in fetters languish.

Rent from thee, and thy sun of fame
Darken'd by the shadowy pinion

Of the Roman bird, whose sway

All the tribes of earth obey, Crouching 'neath his dread dominion, And the terrors of his name!

Fill high the bowl! the draught is thine !
The Romans !- now thou need'st not heed

them!
'Tis nobler than the noblest wine –

It gives thee back to fame and freedom ! The scalding tears my cheek bedew;

My life, my love, my all – - we sever! One last embrace, one long adieu,

And then farewell — farewell for ever! In reality Mithridates had no personal interview with Monima and Berenice before the deaths of those prinesses, but only sent his eunuch Bacchidas to signify his intention that they should die. I have chosen Berenice as the more general name, though Monima was his peculiar favourite.

How is thy royal seat – whereon

Sate in days of yore
Lowly Jesse's godlike son,
And the strength of Solomon,
In those rich and happy times
When the ships from Tarshish bore

Incense, and from Ophir's land,
With silken sail and cedar oar,

Wafting to Judea's strand
All the wealth of foreign climes –
How is thy royal seat o'erthrown!
Gone is all thy majesty:

Salem! Salem ! city of kings,
Thou sittest desolate and lone,
Where once the glory of the Most High

Dwelt visibly enshrin'd between the wings Of Cherubims, within whose bright embrace

The golden mercy-seat remaind: Land of Jehovah! view that sacred place

Abandon’d and profand !

THE OLD CHIEFTAIN

And said I, that my limbs were old !! - Scott.

Raise, raise the song of the hundred shells ! Though my hair is grey and my limbs are

cold; Yet in my bosom proudly dwells

The memory of the days of old; When my voice was high, and my arm was

strong, And the foeman before my stroke would bow, and I could have rais'd the sounding song

As loudly as I hear ye now. For when I have chanted the bold song of

death, Not a page would have stay'd in the hall, Not a lance in the rest, not a sword in the

sheath, Not a shield on the dim grey wall. And who might resist the united powers

Of battle and music that day, When, all martiallid in arms on the heaven

kissing towers, Stood the chieftains in peerless array ? When our enemies sunk from our eyes as the

Wail ! fallen Salem! Wail:

Mohammed's votaries pollute thy fane;
The dark division of thine holy veil

Is rent in twain !
Thrice hath Sion's crowned rock

Seen thy temple's marble state,
Awfully, serenely great,

Towering on his sainted brow,

Rear its pinnacles of snow: Thrice, with desolating shock,

Down to earth hath seen it driv'n

From his heights, which reach to heaven! Wail, fallen Salem! Wail:

Though not one stone above another
There was left to tell the tale

Of the greatness of thy story,
Yet the long lapse of ages cannot smother

The blaze of thine abounding glory;
Which thro' the mist of rolling years,
O'er history's darken'd page appears,
Like the morning star, whose gleam

Gazeth thro' the waste of night,
What time old ocean's purple stream

In his cold surge hath deeply lav'd
Its ardent front of dewy light.
Oh! who shall e'er forget thy bands

which bray'd
The terrors of the desert's barren reign,
And that strong arm which broke the chain

Wherein ye foully lay enslavid,

Or that sublime Theocracy which par'd
Your way thro' ocean's vast domain,
And on, far on to Canaan's emerald plain

Led the Israelitish crowd
With a pillar and a cloud ?
Signs on earth and signs on high
Prophesied thy destiny:

snow

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Shall mock at thy fear, and rejoice at thy

groan, And arise in his wrath for the death of his

son! Why blew ye, ye gales, when the murderer

came

A trumpet's voice above thee rung,

A starry sabre o'er thee hung; Visions of fiery armies, redly flashing

In the many-colour'd glare

Of the setting orb of day; And flaming chariots, fiercely dashing,

Swept along the peopled air,

In magnificent array: The temple doors, on brazen hinges crashing,

Burst open with appalling sound,

A wond'rous radiance streaming round ! Our blood be on our heads!' ye said:

Such your awless imprecation:
Full bitterly at length 't was paid

Upon your captive nation !
Arms of adverse legions bound thee,
Plague and pestilence stood round thee;
Seven weary suns had brighten'd Syria's
Yet still was heard th' unceasing cry -
From south, north, east, and west, a voice,
“Woe unto thy sons and daughters !

Woe to Salem ! thou art lost!'
A sound divine
Came from the sainted, secret, inmost shrine:
· Let us go hence!' - and then a noise -

The thunders of the parting Deity,
Like the rush of countless waters,

Like the murmur of a host !

call;

sky,

Though now each glorious hope be blighted,
Yet an hour shall come, when ye,
Though scatter'd like the chaff, shall be
Beneath one standard once again united;

When your wandering race shall own,
Prostrate at the dazzling throne

Of your high Almighty Lord,
The wonders of his searchless word,
Th' unfading splendours of his Son!

Why fann’d ye the fire, and why fed ye the

flame ? Why sped ye his sails o'er the ocean so blue ? Are ye also combin'd for the fall of Peru ? And thou, whom no prayers, no entreaties can

bend, Thy crimes and thy murders to heav'n shall as

cend: For vengeance the ghosts of our forefathers At thy threshold, Pizarro, in death shalt thou

fall ! Ay there - even there in the halls of thy pride, With the blood of thine heart shall thy portals

be dyed ! Lo! dark as the tempests that frown from the

LAMENTATION OF THE PERU

VIANS

The foes of the east have come down on our

shore, And the state and the strength of Peru are no

inore: Oh! curs d, doubly curs'd, was that desolate

hour, When they spread o'er our land in the pride of

their power! Lament for the Inca, the son of the Sun; Ataliba 's fallen - Peru is undone! Pizarro ! Fizarro ! though conquest may wing, Her course round thy banners that wanton in

air; Yet remorse to thy grief-stricken conscience

shall cling, And shriek o'er thy banquets in sounds of

despair. It shall tell thee, that he who beholds from his

throne The blood thou hast spilt and the deeds thou

north, From the cloud of past time Manco Capac looks

forth Great Inca! to whom the gay day-star gave

birth,
Whose throne is the heaven, and whose foot-

stool the earth
His visage is sad as the vapours that rise
From the desolate mountain of fire to the skies;
But his eye flashes flame as the lightnings that

streak
Those volumes that shroud the volcano's high

peak. Hark! he speaks — bids us fly to our moun

tains, and cherish Bold freedom's last spark ere for ever it per

ish; Bids us leave these wild condors to prey on each

other, Each to bathe his fierce beak in the gore of his

brother! This symbol we take of our godhead the Sun, And curse thee and thine for the deeds thou

hast done.
May the curses pursue thee of those thou hast

slain,
Of those that have fallen in war on the plain,
When we went forth to greet ye — but foully
Your dark shots of death on the sons of Peru.
May the curse of the widow - the curse of the

brave
The curse of the fatherless, cleave to thy grave!
And the words which they spake with their last

dying breath,
Embitter the pangs and the tortures of death!
May he that assists thee be childless and poor,
With famine behind him, and death at his door:
May his nights be all sleepless, his days spent

alone,
And ne'er may he list to a voice but his own!
Or, if he shall sleep, in his dreams may he view
The ghost of our Inca, the fiends of Peru:

ye threw

hast done,

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Ah! yes, the lip may faintly smile,
The eye may sparkle for a while;
But never from that wither'd heart
The consciousness of ill shall part !
That glance, that smile of passing light,
Are as the rainbow of the night;
But seldom seen, it dares to bloom
Upon the bosom of the gloom.
Its tints are sad and coldly pale,
Dim-glimmering thro’ their misty veil;
Unlike the ardent hues which play
Along the flowery bow of day.
The moon-beams sink in dark-rob'd shades,
Too soon the airy vision fades;
And double night returns, to shroud
The volumes of the showery cloud.

THE sun goes down in the dark blue main,

To rise the brighter to-morrow;
But oh! what charm can restore again

Those days now consign’d to sorrow?
The moon goes down on the calm still night,

To rise sweeter than when she parted; But oh! what charm can restore the light

Of joy to the broken-hearted ?
The blossoms depart in the wintry hour,

To rise in vernal glory;
But oh! what charm can restore the flower

Of youth to the old and hoary?

•THOU CAMEST TO THY BOWER, MY LOVE, ACROSS THE MUSKY GROVE'

TERENCE.

ON A DEAD ENEMY

* Virgo egregia forma.'

Non odi mortuum.'- CICERO. I CAME in haste with cursing breath,

And heart of hardest steel; But when I saw thee cold in death,

I felt as man should feel.

For when I look upon that face,

That cold, unheeding, frigid brow, Where neither rage nor fear has place,

By Heaven! I cannot hate thee now!

THE DUKE OF ALVA'S OBSERVA.

TION ON KINGS 1

Kings, when to private audience they descend,

And make the baffled courtier their prey, Do use an orange, as they treat a friend

Extract the juice, and cast the rind away. When thou art favour'd by thy sovereign's eye, Let not his glance thine inmost thoughts dis

cover; Or he will scan thee through, and lay thee by,

Like some old book which he has read all

Thou camest to thy bower, my love, across the

musky grove, To fan thy blooming charms within the coolness

of the shade; Thy locks were like a midnight cloud with sil

ver moon-beams wove, And o'er thy face the varying tints of youthful

passion play'd. Thy breath was like the sandal-wood that casts

a rich perfume, Thy blue eyes mock'd the lotos in the noon-day

of his bloom; Thy cheeks were like the beamy flush that gilds

the breaking day, And in th' ambrosia of thy smiles the god of

rapture lay.3 Fair as the cairba-stone art thou, that stone of

dazzling white 4 Ere yet unholy fingers chang'd its milk-white

hue to night; And lovelier than the loveliest glance from

Even's placid star, And brighter than the sea of gold, the gorgeous

Himsagar. In high Mohammed's boundless heaven Al Caw.

over.

'AH! YES, THE LIP MAY FAINTLY

SMILE'

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Signed' A. T. (?)' in the reprint, and probably not Alfred's.

thor's stream may play, The fount of youth may sparkling gush be

neath the western ray; 6 And Tasnim's wave in chrystal cups may glow

with musk and wine, But oh ! their lustre could not match one beau

teous tear of thine !

1 See D'Israeli's Curiosities of Literature.

? A simile elicited from the songs of Jayadeva, the Horace of India.

* Vide Horace's ODE — Pulchris EXCUBAT in genis.'

4 Vide Sale's Koran,
5 See Sir William Jones on Eastern Plants.

6 The fabled fountain of youth in the Babamas, in search of which Juan Ponce de Leon discovered Florida

THE PASSIONS

•You have passions in your heart — scorpions; they sleep now - beware how you awaken them! they will sting you even to death!'- Mysteries of Udolpho, vol. iii.

BEWARE, beware, ere thou takest

The draught of misery ! Beware, beware, e'er thou wakest

The scorpions that sleep in thee!

'Tis he the bow that blasteth,

And breaketh the proud one's quiver; And the Lord of armies resteth

In his Holy of Holies for ever! For God is Salem's spear,

And God is Salem's sword; What mortal man shall dare

To combat with the Lord ?
Every knee shall bow

Before his awful sight;
Every thought sink low
Before the Lord of might.
For the God of gods, which liveth

Through all eternity,
'Tis he alone which giveth

And taketh victory:
'T is he the bow that blasteth,

And breaketh the proud one's quiver;
And the Lord of armies resteth

In his Holy of Holies for ever!

The woes which thou canst not number,

As yet are wrapt in sleep; Yet oh! yet they slumber,

But their slumbers are not deep.
Yet oh! yet while the rancour

Of hate has no place in thee,
While thy buoyant soul has an anchor

In youth's bright tranquil sea:
Yet oh! yet while the blossom

Of hope is blooming fair, While the beam of bliss lights thy bosom

0! rouse not the serpent there! For bitter thy tears will trickle

'Neath misery's heavy load, When the world has put in its sickle

To the crop which fancy sow’d.

ON THE MOON-LIGHT SHINING

UPON A FRIEND'S GRAVE

Signed 'A. T. (?),' and probably Charles's. Show not, O Moon! with pure and liquid beam, That mournful spot, where Memory fears to

tread; Glance on the grove, or quiver in the stream,

Or tip the hills — but shine not on the dead: It wounds the lonely hearts that still survive, And after bury'd friends are doom'd to live.

When the world has rent the cable

That bound thee to the shore,
And launched thee weak and unable

To bear the billow's roar;
Then the slightest touch will waken

Those pangs that will always grieve thee, And thy soul will be fiercely shaken

With storms that will never leave thee!

A CONTRAST

Dost ask why Laura's soul is riven

By pangs her prudence can't command ? To one who heeds got she has giv'n

Her heart, alas ! without her hand.

So beware, beware, ere thou takest

The draught of misery ! Beware, beware, ere thou wakest

The scorpions that sleep in thee!

But Chloe claims our sympathy,

To wealth a martyr and a slave; For when the knot she dar'd to tie,

Her hand without her heart she gave.

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