In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure,
Die calm, or calmer, oft than he

Whose heritage was misery:

For he who hath in turn run through

All that was beautiful and new,

Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave; And, save the future, (which is view'd Not quite as men are base or good, But as their nerves may be endued,) With nought perhaps to grieve:

The wretch still hopes his woes must end,
And Death, whom he should deem his friend,
Appears, to his distemper'd eyes,

Arrived to rob him of his prize,
The tree of his new Paradise.
To-morrow would have given him all,
Repaid his pangs, repair'd his fall;
To-morrow would have been the first
Of days no more deplored or curst,
But bright, and long, and beckoning years,
Seen dazzling through the mist of tears,
Guerdon of many a painful hour;
To-morrow would have given him power
To rule, to shine, to smite, to save-
And must it dawn upon his grave?

XVIII.

"The sun was sinking—still I lay
Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed,

I thought to mingle there our clay;
And my dim eyes of death had need,
No hope arose of being freed:

I cast my last looks up the sky,

And there between me and the sun

I saw the expecting raven fly,

Who scarce would wait till both should die,

Ere his repast begun;

He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more,

And each time nearer than before;

I saw his wing through twilight flit,
And once so near me he alit

I could have smote, but lack'd the strength; But the slight motion of my hand,

And feeble scratching of the sand,
The exerted throat's faint struggling noise,
Which scarcely could be called a voice,
Together scared him off at length.
I know no more-my latest dream
Is something of a lovely star
Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar,
And went and came with wandering beam,
And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense
Sensation of recurring sense,

And then subsiding back to death,
And then again a little breath,

A little thrill, a short suspense,

An icy sickness curdling o'er

My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain

A gasp, a throb, a start of pain,

A sigh, and nothing more.

XIX.

"I woke where was I?-Do I see
A human face look down on me?

And doth a roof above me close?
Do these limbs on a couch repose?
Is this a chamber where I lie ?
And is it mortal yon bright eye,
That watches me with gentle glance?

I closed my own again once more,
As doubtful that my former trance
Could not as yet be o'er.
A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall,
Sate watching by the cottage wall;
The sparkle of her eye I caught,
Even with my first return of thought;
For ever and anon she threw

A prying, pitying glance on me
With her black eyes so wild and free:

I gazed, and gazed, until I knew
No vision it could be,-

But that I lived, and was released
From adding to the vulture's feast :
And when the Cossack maid beheld
My heavy eyes at length unseal'd,
She smiled-and I essay'd to speak,
But fail'd-and she approach'd, and made
With lip and finger signs that said,
1 must not strive as yet to break
The silence, till my strength should be
Enough to leave my accents free;
And then her hand on mine she laid,
And smooth'd the pillow for my head,
And stole along on tiptoe tread,

And gently oped the door, and spake
In whispers-ne'er was voice so sweet!
Even music follow'd her light feet;

But those she call'd were not awake, And she went forth; but, ere she pass'd, Another look on me she cast,

Another sign she made, to say,
That I had nought to fear, that all
Were near, at my command or call,
And she would not delay

Her due return :—while she was gone,
Methought I felt too much alone.

XX.

"She came with mother and with sire— What need of more ?-I will not tire

With long recital of the rest,

Since I became the Cossack's guest.
They found me senseless on the plain,
They bore me to the nearest hut,
They brought me into life again-
Me-one day o'er their realm to reign!

Thus the vain fool who strove to glut

His rage, refining on my pain,

Sent me forth to the wilderness,
Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone,
To pass the desert to a throne,-
What mortal his own doom may guess?
Let none despond, let none despair!
To-morrow the Borysthenes

May see our coursers graze at ease
Upon his Turkish bank, and never
Had I such welcome for a river

As I shall yield when safely there.3
Comrades, good night!"-The Hetman threw
His length beneath the oak-tree shade,
With leafy couch already made,

A bed nor comfortless nor new

To him, who took his rest whene'er

The hour arrived, no matter where :

His eyes the hastening slumbers steep.
And if ye marvel Charles forgot

To thank his tale, he wonder'd not,

The king had been an hour asleep.

5 ["Charles, having perceived that the day was lost, fled to a place called Perewolochna, situated in the angle formed by the junction of the Vorskla and the Borysthenes. Here, accompanied by Mazeppa, and a few hundreds of his followers, Charles swam over the latter great river, and at length reached the Bog, where he was kindly received by the Turkish pacha. The Russian envoy at the Sublime Porte demanded that Mazeppa should be delivered up to Peter, but the old Hetman of the Cossacks escaped this fate by taking a disease which hastened his death."-BArrow's Peter the Great, pp. 196-203.]

THE ISLAND;

OR,

CHRISTIAN AND HIS COMRADES.