He waved the sceptre o'er his kind Resistless words were on his tongue, Then Eloquence first flash'd below; Minerva from the thunderer's brow! And throned immortal by his side, But, if their solemn love were crime, He perished; but his wreath was won,He perished in his height of fame : Then sunk the cloud on Athens' sun, Yet still she conquer'd in his name. Fill'd with his soul, she could not die; Her conquest was Posterity! THE MINSTREL'S HOUR. WHEN day is done, and clouds are low, And flowers are honey-dew, And Vesper's lamp begins to burn Along the western blue, And homeward wing the turtle-doves, Then comes the hour the minstrel loves. And still as shakes the sudden breeze, He hears on Tuscan evening seas Or to the field of battle borne, Swells at the sound of trump and horn. The star that peeps the leaves between That from some lady's bower of green Or if some wandering peasant's song Or sees the dark-eyed nuns of Spain, FROM SEBASTIAN, A SPANISH TALE. THE Sound came from a large and lofty tent, Tissued with emblems of Spain's ancient wars; Through the slight silk the myrtle breathed its scent, And pour'd their beams, the blue and midnight stars. Raised like an idol, on the slight ascent Of a low, central tripod sat a Moor, The young magician of those sounds: the floor, The waving walls, were touch'd with tender gloom. She was unveil'd, and yet the shawl of green, That wreathed its thick-pearl'd fringe her locks between, Threw shadow, dim and deep, upon her bloom; She cast upon the ground her startled eye; Of its late check: she lightly touched the string, Again her hand, her voice seem'd wandering ;She dried a tear, and gave her prison'd anguish wing. Farewell, my gentle harp, farewell, "I shed no tears, light passes by When comes the heart's true agony, "And mine has come, no more I weep, My sleep must be th' unwaking sleep, Through my wild brain no more shall move, REV. W. L. BOWLES. SOUTH AMERICAN SCENERY. BENEATH aerial cliffs, and glittering snows, Amid the clear blue light, are wand'ring by ; The humming-bird, along the myrtle bow'rs, The mock-bird sings-and all beside is still. The tumult of its dashing fall suspends, And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends ; Through whose illumin'd spray and sprinkling dews, Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues. Check'ring, with partial shade, the beams of noon, And arching the gray rock with wild festoon, The sunshine darts its interrupted light, And 'mid the cedar's darksome bough, illumes, With instant touch, the lori's scarlet plumes. LEIGH HUNT. MORNING. OPENING OF THE STORY OF RIMINI. THE sun is up, and 'tis a morn of May |