The lightning too each eye in dimness shrouds,

The fiery progeny of clashing clouds,

That carries death upon its blazing wing,
And the keen tortures of th' electric sting:
Not like the harmless flash on summer's eve
(When no rude blasts their silent slumbers leave),
Which, like a radiant vision to the eye,
Expands serenely in the placid sky;

It rushes fleeter than the swiftest wind,
And bids attendant thunders wait behind:
Quick-forked-livid, thro' the air it flies,

A moment blazes-dazzles-bursts-aud dies:
Another, and another yet, and still

To each replies its own allotted peal.
But see, at last, its force and fury spent,
The tempest slackens, and the clouds are rent:
How sweetly opens on th' enchanted view

The deep-blue sky, more fresh and bright in hue!
A finer fragrance breathes in every vale,
A fuller luxury in every gale;

My ravish'd senses catch the rich perfume,
Aud Nature smiles in renovated bloom!

As once in conscious glory bold,
To war their sounding cars they roll'd,
Uncrush'd, uutrampled, uncontroll'd!

Each drop that gushes from their side,
Will serve to swell the crimson tide,
That soon shall whelm the Moslem's pride!

At last upon their lords they turn, At last the shame of bondage learn, At last they feel their fetters burn!*

Oh how the heart expands to see An injured people all agree

To burst those fetters and be free!

Each far-famed mount that cleaves the skies, Each plain where buried glory lies,

All, all exclaim-"Awake! arise!"

Who would not feel their wrongs? and who
Departed freedom would not rue,
With all her trophies in his view?

To see imperial Athens reign,
And, towering o'er the vassal main,
Rise in embattled strength again-
To see rough Sparta train once more
Her infants' ears for battle's roar,
Stern, dreadful, chainless, as before-

Was Byron's hope-was Byron's aim:
With ready heart and hand he came;
But perish'd in that path of fame!

THE WALK AT MIDNIGHT.

"Tremulo sub lumine."-VIRGIL.

SOFT, shadowy moonbeam! 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 you 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!

The enthusiasm the noble poet excited reminds us of Tyrtus.

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 gray spire appears
In the black outline of the trees,
Conceals the object of my tears,
Whose form in dreams my spirit sees.

There in the chilling bed of earth

The chancel's letter'd stone aboveThere 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!

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

You rude, rough bridge of prostrate pine.

MITHRIDATES PRESENTING BERENICE WITH THE CUP OF POISON.

OH! Berenice, lorn and lost,

This wretched soul with shame is bleeding: Oh! Berenice, I am tost

By griefs, like wave to wave succeeding.

Fall'n Pontus! all her fame is gone, And dim the splendor of her glory; Low in the west her evening sun,

And dark the lustre of her story.

Dead is the wreath that round her brow
The glowing hands of Honor 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 standards flaming?

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 from future fortune borrows; One glorious thought shall cheer me still, That thou art free from abject sorrows

Art free forever 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.

Fill high the bowl! the draught is thine!

The Romans!-now thou need'st not heed them!

"Tis nobler than the nobiest 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 forever!

In reality Mithridates had no personal interview with Monkma and Berenice before the deaths of those princesses, 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 favorite.

THE BARD'S FAREWELL.

"The king, sensible that nothing kept alive the ideas of military valor and of ancient glory so much as the traditional poetry of the people-which, assisted by the power of music and the jollity of festivals, made deep impression on the minds of the youth-gathered together all the Welsh bards, and, from a barbarous though not absurd policy, ordered them to be put to death."—HUME. SNOWDON! thy cliffs shall hear no more This deep-toned harp again; But banner-cry and battle-roar Shall form a fiercer strain!

O'er thy sweet chords, my magic lyre!
What future hand shall stray?
What brain shall feel thy master's fire,
Or frame his matchless lay?

Well might the crafty Edward fear:
Should I but touch thy chord,
Its slightest sound would couch the spear,
And bare the indignant sword!

Full well he knew the wizard-spell
That dwelt upon thy string;

And trembled, when he heard thy swell
Thro' Snowdon's caverns ring!

These eyes shall sleep in death's dull night, This hand all nerveless lie,

Ere once again you orb of light

Break o'er the clear blue sky!

And thou, by Hell's own furies nurst, Unfurl thy banner's pride!

But know that, living, thee I cursed; Aud, cursing thee, I died!

EPIGRAM.

MEDEA'S herbs her magic gave-
They taught her how to kill or save:
No foreign aid couldst thou devise,
For in thyself thy magic lies.

ON BEING ASKED FOR A SIMILE,

TO ILLUSTRATE THE ADVANTAGE OF KEEPING THE PASSIONS SUBSERVIENT TO REASON.

As the sharp, pungent taste is the glory of mustard, But, if heighten'd, would trouble your touchy pa pillæ :

As a few laurel-leaves add a relish to custard, But, if many, would fight with your stomach and kill ye:

So the passions, if freed from the precincts of reason, Have noxious effects-but if duly confined, sir, Are useful, no doubt-this each writer agrees on: So I've dish'd up a simile just to your mind, sir.

When my voice was high, and my arm was strong,
And the foeman before my stroke would bow,
And I could have raised 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 gray wall.

And who might resist the united powers

Of battle and music that day,

When, all martiall'd in arms on the heaven-kissing towers,

Stood the chieftains in peerless array?

When our enemies sunk from our eyes as the snow
Which falls down the stream in the dell,
When each word that I spake was the death of a
foe,

And each note of my harp was his knell?

So raise ye the song of the hundred shells;
Though my hair is gray and my limbs are cold,
Yet in my bosom proudly dwells
The memory of the days of old!

APOLLONIUS RHODIUS'S COMPLAINT.*

WITH cutting taunt they bade me lay

My high-strung harp aside,

As if I dare not soar away

On Fancy's plume of pride!

Oh! while there's image in my brain

And vigor in my hand,

The first shall frame the soul-fraught strain, The last these chords command!

'Tis true, I own, the starting tear Has swell'd into mine eye,

When she, whose hand the plant should rear, Could bid it fade and die:

But, deaf to cavil, spite, and scorn,

I still must wake the lyre;

And still, on Fancy's pinions borne, To Helicon aspire.

* This eminent poet, resenting the unworthy treatment of the Alexandrians, quitted their city, where he had been for some time librarian, and retired to Rhodes.

THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. JERUSALEM! Jerusalem!

Thou art low! thou mighty one,
How is the brilliance of thy diadem,
How is the lustre of thy throne
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!

How is thy royal seat-whereon
Sat 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 enshrined between the wings Of Cherubims, within whose bright embrace The golden mercy-seat remain'd: Land of Jehovah! view that sacred place Abandon'd and profaned!

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 laved
Its ardent front of dewy light.

Oh! who shall e'er forget thy bands, which
braved

* Alexandria, however, was not his native city: he was born at Naucratis.

Pizarro Pizarro! 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 hast done,

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?
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 combined for the fall of Peru?

SHORT EULOGIUM ON HOMER.
IMMORTAL bard! thy warlike lay
Demands the greenest, brightest bay,
That ever wreathed the brow
Of minstrel bending o'er his lyre,
With ardent hand and soul of fire,
Or theu, or since, or now!

"A SISTER, SWEET ENDEARING NAME!"

"Why should we mourn for the blest?"-BYRON. A SISTER, Sweet endearing name! Beneath this tombstone sleeps;

A brother (who such tears could blame ?)
In pensive anguish weeps.

I saw her when in health she wore
A soft and matchless grace,
And sportive pleasures wanton'd o'er
The dimples of her face.

"Belle en sa fleur d'adolescence."-BERQUIN. "Lovely in death the beauteous ruin lay."-YOUNG. STILL, mute, and motionless she lies, The mist of death has veil'd her eyes. And is that bright-red lip so pale, Whose hue was freshen'd by a gale More sweet than summer e'er could bring To fan her flowers with balmy wing! Thy breath, the summer gale, is fled, And leaves thy lip, the flower, decay'd. When I was young, with fost'ring care I rear'd a tulip bright and fair, And saw its lovely leaves expand, The labor of my infant hand. But winter came-its varied dye Each morn grew fainter to mine eye; Till, with'ring, it was bright no more, Nor bloom'd as it was wont before: And gazing there in boyish grief, Upon the dull and alter'd leaf, "Alas! sweet flower," I cried in vain, "Would I could bid thee blush again!" So now, "Return, thou crimson dye, To Celia's lip!" I wildly cry;

ON A DEAD ENEMY.

"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!

LINES.*

**Cur pendet tacita fistula cum lyra?"-HORACE. WHENOR is it, friend, that thine enchanting lyre Of wizard charm, should thus in silence lie? Ah! why not boldly sweep its chords of fire, And rouse to life its latent harmony?

Thy fancy, fresh, exuberant, boundless, wild,
Like the rich herbage of thy Plata's shore,
By Song's resistless witchery begniled
Would then transport us, since it charm'd before!

* Occasioned by hearing an ardent and beautiful description of the scenery of Southern America given by a gentleman whom the author persuaded to put his ideas into the language of poetry,