Dreams my fond brain-or hath that sound affray'd
The slumbering tenants of the sculptured tomb?
Methinks I track along the dim arcade

Whose storied panes increase its twilight gloom,
Long-buried chiefs that wait the day of doom.
Sebert is there, who bade the cross divine
On Thorney's barren islet bud and bloom;
Meek Edward quits his desecrated shrine;

And Henry wakes, whose name shall with these walls decline.

Potent in arts alone, the wavering Sire

Leans on the dauntless son, his life's support,
On him whose wisdom curb'd the nobles' ire,
Whose valour won the Cambrian mountain fort;
And there strides on the Knight of Agincourt
In equal pace with him of Cressy's field.
Victors in vain, since Fortune's fickle sport

To jarring chiefs consign'd th' unblemish'd shield,
And left to babes the sword scarce Ascabart could wield.

Warriors and war's flood waves thus idly ebb;

But mark the pile where brass has learned to breathe, And stone, like dew-drops on Arachne's web,

Looks lightly down o'er bannered stalls beneath. Thence come the peaceful kings with sword in sheath. On Richmond's brow the blended roses twine,

Red Albin's thistle decks her Stuart's wreath,

But Erin's flower, for ages doom'd to pine,

Reserves its bloom to bless the Heir of Brunswick's line.

Nations repose: for man's impetuous pride,

His schemes, his strifes, by death's cold hand are hushed; Remorseless Mary walks at Edward's side;

Eliza views the beauteous foe she crush'd,

Nor paler grows her cheek that never blush'd;

Voluptuous Charles, thrice bound in Bourbon's chain, Meets great Nassau, with Bourbon's conquest flush'd; And Stuart's daughters, him whose golden rein

Ruled the white steed that ramp'd o'er Stuart's lost domain.

Silent the train recedes—but, ah! to him

Who claims their throne, that silence speaks more loud
Than the glad people's voice, their splendour dim
Dispels life's pageant like a summer cloud.
Pensive on him gaze all-the meek-the proud-
The valiant and the weak-but pensive most

Pale Richard's shade-see, see! the crimson'd shroud,
He lingering waves, and, ere in darkness lost,
Gives language to the looks of all the shadowy host.

"Monarch! the feast, the song, the banquet cup, For thee shall glad yon rafter'd roof to-night; And every angel form that bears it up,

Shall bathe his pinions in a flood of light. For thee, in orient pearl, and plumage white,

Shall beauteous Albion lead her starry train, For thee, the Prince, the Noble, and the Knight,

The lawn-robed Prelate, and the lowly swain,

Shall shout, till vales, and hills, and oceans, shout again.

"The hand untaught to serve, on thee shall tend,
And maple vie with gold thy touch to meet;
The knee unused to kneel, to thee shall bend;
And, like its mountain lord, the falcon fleet
Shall stoop from air, and chirp thy hand to greet;
While trump, and drum, and clarion's thrilling call,
Herald the youthful Champion, at thy feet

To seal his challenge with the gauntlet's fall,

By high-born Howard back'd, and him who quell'd the Gaul,

"Quaff the full cup of bliss: yet, oh, beware!
As high it foam'd for me, when that fair roof,
My master-work, first spanned the yielding air,
And echo'd first the charger's clattering hoof,
My Champion too was there in arms of proof;

No hand opposed, no tongue defiance spoke;
Thousands throng'd round, who stood ere long aloof,
And he who hired the assassin's kindlier stroke,
Knelt lowest of the low-the faithless Bolingbroke.

"Then trust not thou the flatterer's hollow voice,
Court not the wavering crowds' vociferous zeal,
Be just-if mortals deem thee just, rejoice-

But if the traitor's malison they deal,
To Him who made thee King, make thine appeal,
Be His strong arm thy buckler, He thy might;
So may'st thou stand unmoved, nor fear, nor feel

Seditious breath, that taints the breeze of night,
Or bold rebellion's shaft, that shames the noonday light.

"And in that hour, when mortal strength is weak,
When thou, like us, shalt own a tyrant's sway,
Supreme o'er Valour's arm, and Beauty's cheek,
And even o'er Virtue's tenement of clay,
With whom thy Sire and mine alike decay,

And thy fair daughter's bloom untimely show'd

Oh! in that awful hour be Heaven thy stay,

And there be thou enthroned, through His dear blood,

Who wore the thorn-wove crown, and dyed the Holy Rood."

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF A LATE DISTINGUISHED CHARACTER.

Lawrence of virtuous Father, virtuous Son.

MILTON.

LONG threatening hung th' impending gloom,
While trembling Hope respired with pain,
And shrinking fear foresaw the doom

That sorrowing hearts could ill sustain :
The bolt is sped-we view aghast

The mighty ruin fall'n at last.

As some majestic sheltering oak,

With ample boughs, the forest's pride,
Victim of Heaven's own thunder stroke,
Spreads its lamented ruin wide;
The scatter'd tenants of its shade
With plaintive cries the ear invade.

Thus low on earth Machaon lies,

To us extinct, that mighty mind;
Long must we mourn the good and wise-
The noble-hearted, true, and kind :-
The yawning gulf, which all deplore,
Lies open to be fill'd no more.

Sprung from a long paternal line,

For virtue loved-for science famed-
'Midst Scotia's nobles first to shine,
His high maternal lineage claim'd;
Yet Genius on his favour'd head
New honours heap'd-new lustre shed.

Sprung from the noble and the brave-
The saint, the scholar, and the sage,-
Though round his tomb no trophies wave,
His fame to every distant age
Shall flourish fresh in vernal grace,
And add new splendour to the race.

Cold is that heart whose fervid glow
Burst forth in many an ardent gleam;
Closed are those lips, whence wont to flow
Of eloquence the copious stream,
While wit and learning's blended powers
Bloom'd fair in academic bowers.

His was the clear and spotless life,
Pure as the lucid mountain stream;
And sordid art and petty strife,

And avarice with her golden dream,
Shrunk from that candid open mien
Where truth and honour shone serene.

The stream that with diminish'd force Irriguous wanders through the mead, Or, hid in shades, directs its course,

Each humbler plant unseen to feed;
While verdure fresh, and flow'rets gay,
Reviving mark its devious way:

An emblem fair its course supplied
Of bounty ever fresh and new,
That while it wander'd far and wide,
As silent moved as evening dew,
And heal'd disease, and soften'd woe,-
That stream, alas! has ceased to flow.

She who, to him supremely dear,

Dwelt in his generous bosom's core; They who, his pride and solace here, Joy in a father's smile no more, While o'er the treasure lost they moan,— Mourn not unaided or alone.

Sickness, and want, and sorrow round,
Respond with answering sounds of woe,
Long must they mourn the skill profound,
That bade the healing balsam flow,
And added to the unbought cure
The aid that made it firm and sure.

Not to this favour'd isle alone,

Where art and genius soar so high, Where science mounts her western throne, And heavenward lifts her eagle eye, Was his much honour'd name confined, Who lived and thought for all his kind.

Where'er the sons of science strive

Our feeble nature's pangs to aid,
His fame immortal shall survive

With grateful honours duly paid,
Extensive as the healing art,
And dear to every generous heart:

Where Britain's energetic tongue

Is heard in East or Western Ind,
Or Shakespeare's verse, or Milton's song,
Have fancy waked or taste refined,
Beneath the sun's last lingering ray,
Or where he first pours forth the day;

From where Canadian wastes of snow,
Sullen in wint'ry guise appear,
To where the South, with ardent glow,
Decks with her golden fruits the year,
Columbia's sons that name revere,
To virtue and to wisdom dear.

Even hostile France, averse no more
To merit's just and powerful claim,
In healing art and classic lore,

Inscribes the Scottish sage's name
Amongst her sons, whose fair renown
Their country's letter'd honours crown.

Yet not the wealth his spirit scorn'd,
Not all the wreathes his genius won,
Not all who praised, nor all who mourn'd,
Avail when life's short day is done :
To heartfelt virtues prized by Heaven,
The unfading amaranth is given.

His dear-loved country heirs that fame,
That long her classic page shall grace,
His offspring, too, may boast the name,
That sheds a radiance o'er his race;
But 'tis his goodness spreads a bloom,
And scatters fragrance round his tomb.

NAPOLEON.

(From the French).

[The following is a pretty correct version of one of the numerous poems on the Death of Napoleon, at present in circulation in Paris. It is a curious proof of the fond and devoted attachment with which his memory is still cherished by his followers.

NOBLE spirit, hast thou fled!
Is thy glorious journey sped,

Thy days of brightness numbered,-
Soul of dread sublimity!