Where darkly lours the northern pine,

Where bright the myrtle blooms, And on the desert's trackless sands, Arise the ancient tombs.

The hands that raised them, long ago,
In Death and dust have slept,

And long the grave hath sealed the founts
Of eyes that o'er them wept;

But still they stand, like sea-marks left Amid the passing waves

Of generations, that go down

To their forgotten graves.

For many an early nation's steps

Have passed from hill and plain; Their homes are gone, their deeds forgot, But still their tombs remain

To tell, when Time hath left no trace

Of tower or storied page,

Our ancient earth how glorious was

Her early heritage.

They tell us of the lost and mourned,
When earth was new to tears;

The bard that left his tuneful lyre,
The chief that left his spears;

THE ANCIENT TOMBS.

Ah! were their lights of love and fame

On those dark altars shed,

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To keep undimmed, through time and change, The memory of the dead?

If so, alas for Love's bright tears!
And for Ambition's dreams!
For earth hath kept their monuments,
But lost the sleepers names:
They live no more in story's scroll,
Or song's inspiring breath;

For altars raised to human fame
Have turned to shrines of death.

But from your silence, glorious graves,
What mystic voices rise,

That this, through passing ages, speak
Their lessons to the wise!

Behold, how still the world rewards
Her brightest, as of yore;

For then she gave a nameless grave

And now she gives no more.

FRANCES BROWN.

FAME.

O, WHO shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name,
Whilst in that sound there is a charm,
The nerves to brace, the heart to warm;
As, thinking of the mighty dead,
The young from slothful couch will start,
And vow, with lifted hands outspread,
Like them to act a noble part?

O, who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name,
When, but for those, our mighty dead,
All ages past a blank would be;
Sunk in oblivion's murky bed-
A desert bare-a shipless sea?
They are the distant objects seen,
The lofty marks of what hath been.

O, who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name,
When memory of the mighty dead
To earth-worn pilgrims' wistful eye
The brighest rays of cheering shed,
That point to immortality?

JOANNA BAILLIE.

THE ARAB MAID.

FROM the dark and sunless caverns
Where earth's waters dwell;

By the palm-trees of the desert,
Springeth forth a well.

Still the shadow of its birth-place
Rests upon the wave,

Haunted with ancestral darkness,

From its central cave.

Never does it know the sunshine,
Dark it is and deep;

In its silent depths at noontide
Do the planets sleep.

Round it lies the sculptured marble

Of some ancient town,

Long since, with its towers and temples, To the dust gone down.

Yet it shareth with the present;
For the winds that pass
Catch its freshness, and around it
Grows the pleasant grass.

Over it the fragrant tamarind

Sheds its early leaves;

And the pelican's white bosom

From it life receives.

Not alone to the far planets,
When the sun is bright,

Does it serve a clear, dark mirror,

For their haunting light: But a dream of human beauty

Lingers on its tide;

Never yet were stars so lovely

As the eyes beside.

Lovely is the Arab maiden,

Leaning thoughtful there;
While the languid gale of evening
Lifts not her black hair.
Purple is her broidered caftan ;
And the golden band

Tells she is a cheftain's daughter
In that eastern land.

Scarcely has she left her childhood,

Yet a deeper trace

Than our first and careless summers Is upon her face.

On that youthful cheek is paleness; For the heart's repose

Is disturbed by dreams and fancies That deny the rose.

Touched with tender melancholy
Is the youth of love,