No more his mention shall my verse degrade,-
To him my tribute is already paid.
High, through those elms, with hoary branches
crown'd,
Fair Ida's bower adorns the landscape round:
There Science, from her favour'd seat, surveys
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise;
To her awhile resigns her youthful train,
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain;
In scatter'd groups each favour'd haunt pursue;
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new;
Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun,
In rival bands between the wickets run,
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force,
Or chase with nimble fcet its rapid course.
But these with slower steps direct their way,
Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents
While yonder few search out some green retreat.
And arbours shade them from the summer heat:
Others, again, a pert and lively crew, [view,
Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose,
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes;
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray
Tradition treasures for a future day: [fought,
'Twas here the gather'd swains for vengeance
And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought;
Here have we fled before superior might,
And here renew'd the wild tumultuous fight.'
While thus our souls with early passions swell,
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell;
Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er,
And Learning beckons from her temple's door.
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall,
But ruder records fill the dusky wall;
There, deeply carved, behold! each tyro's name
Secures its owner's academic fame;
Here Probus came, the rising fray to quell,
And here he falter'd forth his last farewell;
And here one night abroad they dared to roam,
While bold Pomposus bravely stay'd at home
While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive,
When names of these, like ours, alone survive :
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm.
Dear honest race! though now we meet no
One last long look on what we were before-
Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you.
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu--
Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world,
Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd,
I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret,
And all I sought or hoped was to forget. [face,
Vain wish! if chance some well-remember'd
Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy,
Some old companion of my early race,
My eyes, my heart, proclaim'd me still a boy;
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups
around,
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found;
The smiles of beauty-(for, alas! I've known
The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were
What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne)-
Could hardly charm me, when that friend was
[near;
My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise,
The woods of Ida danced before my eyes
I saw the sprightly wanderers pour along,
saw and join'd again the joyous throng;
Panting, again I traced her lofty grove,
And friendship's feelings triumph'd over love.
Yet why should I alone with such delight
Retrace the circuit of my former flight?
Is there no cause beyond the common claim
Here mingling view the names of sire and son-Endear'd to all in childhood's very name?
The one long graved, the other just begun :
These shall survive alike when son and sire
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire;
Perhaps their last memorial these alone,
Denied in death a monumental stone,
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave
The sighing weeds that hide their nameless
grave.
And here my name, and many an early friend's,
Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends,
Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race,
Who tread our steps, and fill our former place,
Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe,
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was
law;
And now, in turn, possess the reins of power,
To rule the little tyrants of an hour;
Though sometimes with the tales of ancient day,
They pass the dreary winter's eve
And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide, And thus they dealt the combat side by side; Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled,
: bolts nor bars against their strength avail'd:
Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here,
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear
To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam,
And seek abroad the love denied at home.
Those hearts, dear Ida, have I found in thee-
A home, a world, a paradise to me.
Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share
The tender guidance of a father's care.
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply
The love which glistens in a father's eye?
For this can wealth or title's sound atone,
Made, by a parent's early loss, my own?
What brother springs a brother's love to seek?
What sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek?
For me how dull the vacant moments rise,
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties!
Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream
Fraternal smiles collected round me seem;
While still the visions to my heart are prest,
The voice of love will murmur in my rest:
I hear-I wake-and in the sound rejoice;
I hear again,-but ah! no brother's voice.
A hermit, midst of crowds, I fain would stray
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way
HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE.
Oн, Mariamne! now for thee
The heart for which thou bled'st,is bleeding: Revenge is lost in agony,
And wild remorse to rage succeeding.
Oh, Mariamne! where art thou?
Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading:
Ah! couldst thou-thou wouldst pardon now,
Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding.
And is she dead?-and did they dare
Obey my frenzy's jealous raving?
My wrath but doom'd my own despair :
The sword that smote her's o'er me waving.
But thou art cold, my murder'd love!
And this dark heart is vainly craving
For her who soars alone above,
And leaves my soul unworthy saving.
She's gone, who shared my diadem;
She sunk, with her my joys entombing;
I swept that flower from Judah's stem,
Whose leaves for me alone were blooming;
And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell,
This bosom's desolation dooming;
And I have earn'd those tortures well,
Which unconsumed are still consuming!
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On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed;
While I stood on the height and beheld the
[shrine.
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy
And now on that mountain I stood on that day,
But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting
away!
Oh! would that the lightning had glared in its
stead,
[head!
And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's
But the gods of the Pagan shall never profane
The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to
reign;
[be,
And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may
Our worship, O Father! is only for Thee.
BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE
SAT DOWN AND WEPT.
We sat down and wept by the waters
Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters!
Made Salem's high places his prey;
And ye, O her desolate daughters!
Were scatter'd all weeping away.
While sadly we gazed on the river
Which roll'd on in freedom below,
They demanded the song, but, oh, never
That triumph the stranger shall know !
May this right hand be wither'd for ever,
Ere it string our high harp for the foe!
On the willow that harp is suspended,
O Salem! its sound should be free;
And the hour when thy glories were ended
But left me that token of thee:
And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended
With the voice of the spoiler by me!
THE DESTRUCTION OF SEN-
NACHERIB.
THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the
fold,
[gold;
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on
the sea,
[Galilee.
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath
blown,
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
blast,
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and
chill,
[grew still!
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his
*pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the
[turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his
mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the
sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays,
These young effusions of my early days,
To him my inuse her noblest strain would give:
The song might perish, but the theme might
live.
Yet why for him the needless verse essay?
His honour'd name requires no vain display:
By every son of grateful Ida blest,
It finds an echo in each youthful breast;
A fame beyond the glories of the proud,
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd.
Ida! not yet exhausted is the theme,
Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream.
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain !
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain !
Yet let me hush this echo of the past,
This parting song, the dearest and the last;
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy,
To me a silent and a sweet employ,
While, future hope and fear alike unknown,
I think with pleasure on the past alone;
Yes, to the past alone my heart confine,
And chase the phantom of what once was mine.
Ida! still o'er thy hills in joy preside,
And proudly steer through time's eventful tide;
Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere,
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear,-
That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow
O'er their last scene of happiness below.
Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along,
The feeble veterans of some former throng,
Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests
whirl'd,
Are swept for ever from this busy world;
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth,
While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth;
Say if remembrance days like these endears
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years?
Say, can ambition's fever'd dream bestow
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe?
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son,
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won,
Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys),
Recall one scene so much beloved to view
As those where Youth her garland twined for you?
Ah, no! amidst the gloomy calm of age
You turn with faltering hand life's varied page;
Feruse the record of your days on earth,
Unsullied only where it marks your birth;
Still lingering pause above each chequer'd leaf,
And blot with tears the sable lines of grief;
Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw,
Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu;
But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn,
Traced by the rosy finger of the morn;
When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of
Truth,
And Love, without his pinion, smiled on youth.
• 'L'Amitié est l'Amour sans ailes' is a French proverb.
ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM,
ENTITLED THE COMMON LOT.
MONTGOMERY! true, the common lot
Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave;
Yet some shall never be forgot,
Some shall exist beyond the grave
'Unknown the region of his birth,'
The hero rolls the tide of war; +
Yet not unknown his martial worth,
Which glares a meteor from afar.
His joy or grief, his weal or woe,
Perchance may 'scape the page of fame ;
Yet nations now unborn will know
The record of his deathless name.
The patriot's and the poet's frame
Must share the common tomb of all:
Their glory will not sleep the same;
That will arise, though empires fall.
The lustre of a beauty's eye
Assumes the ghastly stare of death;
The fair, the brave, the good must die,
And sink the yawning grave beneath.
Once more the speaking eye revives,
Still beaming through the lover's strain;
For Petrarch's Laura still survives:
She died, but ne'er will die again.
The rolling seasons pass away,
And Time, untiring, waves his wing;
Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay,
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring.
All, all must sleep in grim repose,
Collected in the silent tomb:
The old and young, with friends and foes,
Festering alike in shrouds, consume.
The mouldering marble lasts its day,
Yet falls at length a useless fane;
To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey,
The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain.
What, though the sculpture be destroy'd,
From dark oblivion meant to guard;
A bright renown shall be enjoy'd
By those whose virtues claim reward.
Then do not say the common lot
Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave;
Some few who ne'er will be forgot
Shall burst the bondage of the grave.
WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH THE
VELVET BAND WHICH BOUND HER TRESSES. THIS Band, which bound thy yellow hair,
Is mine, sweet girl! thy pledge of love;
Written by James Montgomery, author of The Wanderer in Switzerland, &c.
Bayard, Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and in more +No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of
modern times the fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden, etc., are familiar to every historical reader; but the exact places of their birth are known to a very small proportion of their admirers,
Cast crowns for rosaries away,
An empire for a cell;
A strict accountant of his beads,
A subtle disputant on creeds,
His dotage trifled well:
Yet better had he neither known
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.
But thou-from thy reluctant hand
The thunderbolt is wrung-
Too late thou leav'st the high command
To which thy weakness clung;
All Evil Spirit as thou art,
It is enough to grieve the heart
To see thine own unstrung;
To think that God's fair world hath been
The footstool of a thing so mean!
And Earth hath spilt her blood for him,
Who thus can hoard his own!
And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb,
And thank'd him for a throne !
Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear,
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear
In humblest guise have shown.
Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind
A brighter name to lure mankind!
Thine evil deeds are writ in gore,
Nor written thus in vain-
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,
Ör deepen every stain:
If thou hadst died as honour dies,
Some new Napoleon might arise,
To shame the world again-
But who would soar the solar height,
To set in such a starless night?
Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust
Is vile as vulgar clay;
Thy scales, Mortality are just
To all that pass away:
But yet methought the living great
Some higher sparks should animate,
To dazzle and dismay:
Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth Of these, the Conquerors of the earth.
And she, proud Austria's mournful flower,*
Thy still imperial bride,
How bears her breast the torturing hour?
Still clings she to thy side?
Must she, too, bend: must she, too, share
Thy late repentance, long despair,
Thou throneless Homicide?
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem,-
'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem!
Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,
And gaze upon the sea;
That element may meet thy smile-
It ne'er was ruled by thee!
Or trace with thine all idle hand,
In loitering mood upon the sand,
That Earth is now as free!
That Corinth's pedagogue* hath now
Transferr'd his byword to thy brow.
Thou Timour! in his captive's cage, t
What thoughts will there be thine,
While brooding in thy prison'd rage,
But one-The world was mine!'
Unless, like he of Babylon,
All sense is with thy sceptre gone,
Life will not long confine
That spirit pour'd so widely forth-
So long obey'd-so little worth!
Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,‡
Wilt thou withstand the shock?
And share, with him, the unforgiven,
His vulture and his rock?
Foredoom'd by God-by man accurst,
And that last act, though not thy worst,
The very Fiend's arch mock;
He in his fall preserved his pride,
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died!
There was a day-there was an hour,
While earth was Gaul's-Gaul thine-
When that immeasurable power
Unsated to resign,
Had been an act of purer fame,
Than gathers round Marengo's name,
And gilded thy decline,
Through the long twilight of all time,
Despite some passing clouds of crime.
But thou, forsooth, must be a king,
And don the purple vest !
As if that foolish robe could wring
Remembrance from thy breast.
Where is that faded garment? where
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear,
The star, the string, the crest?
Vain froward child of empire! say,
Are all thy playthings snatch'd away?
Where may the wearied eye repose
When gazing on the Great,
Where neither guilty glory glows,
Nor despicable state?
Yes-one--the first-the last-the best-
The Cincinnatus of the West,
Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeath'd the name of Washington, To make man blush there was but one!
We do not curse thee, Waterloo !
Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew.
There 'twas shed, but is not sunk-
Rising from each gory trunk,
Like the waterspout from ocean,
With a strong and growing motion :
*Dionysius of Sicily, who, after his fall, kept a school at Corinth.
The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane.
Prometheus, said to have stolen fire from heaven.
To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood the heroes through the slumbering band. Half by his side. Their spears were in their hands. the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his Fingal called his chiefs: they stood around. shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, The king was in the midst. Grey were his and glistens through the shade. His spear is locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age raised on high. Why dost thou bend thy withered not his powers. 'Sons of Morven,' brow, chief of Oithona?' said fair-haired Calmar: said the hero, to-morrow we meet the foe. we are in the midst of foes. Is this a time for But where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin? delay?' 'It is a time for vengeance,' said Oila He rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of of the gloomy brow. Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: our coming. Who will speed through Lochlin seest thou his spear? Its point is dim with the to the hero, and call the chief to arms? The gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall path is by the swords of foes; but many are my reek on mine; but shall I slay him sleeping, heroes. They are thunderbolts of war. Speak, son of Mora? No! he shall feel his wound: ye chiefs! Who will arise?' my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber. 'Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed,' said Rise, Mathon, rise! The son of Conna calls; dark-haired Orla, and mine alone. What is thy life is his; rise to combat.' Mathon starts death to me? I love the sleep of the mighty, from sleep; but did he rise alone? No: the but little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin gathering chiefs bound on the plain. Fly! dream. I will seek car-borne Cuthullin. If I Calmar, fly!' said dark-haired Orla. 'Mathon fall, raise the song of bards; and lay me by the is mine. I shall die in joy: but Lochlin crowds stream of Lubar.'-'And shalt thou fall alone?' around. Fly through the shade of night.' Orla said fair-haired Calmar. Wilt thou leave thy turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is falls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, and not He rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strulift the spear? No, Orla! ours has been the mon sees him fall: his wrath rises: his weapon chase of the roe-buck, and the feast of shells; glitters on the head of Orla: but a spear pierced ours be the path of danger: ours has been the his eye. His brain gushes through the wound, cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the on the banks of Lubar. Calmar,' said the waves of the ocean on two mighty barks of the chief of Oithona, 'why should thy yellow locks north, so pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. be darkened in the dust of Erin? Let me fall As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer alone. My father dwells in his hall of air: he the barks of the north, so rise the chiefs of Morwill rejoice in his boy; but the blue-eyed Mora ven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din spreads the feast for her son in Morven. She of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, his shield; his sons throng around; the people and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let her pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. not say, "Calmar has fallen by the steel of Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the Lochlin he died with gloomy Orla, the chief spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the of the dark brow." Why should tears dim the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death! many azure eyes of Mora? Why should her voice are the widows of Lochlin! Morven prevails in curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live, its strength. Calmar! Live to raise my stone of moss; live to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death to Orla, from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of praise. Orla,' said the son of Mora, 'could I raise the song of death to my friend? Could I give his fame to the winds? No, my heart would speak in sighs: faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall hear the song together. One cloud shall be ours on high the bards will mingle the names of Orla and Calmar.'
Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen; but the sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey.
Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? Bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. Tis Calmar: he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives! They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps he lives, though low. Rise,' said the king, 'rise, are to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of son of Mora: 'tis mine to heal the wounds of oak dim twinkles through the night. The heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of northern star points the path to Tura. Swaran, Morven.' the king, rests on his lonely hill. Here the 'Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of troops are mixed: they frown in sleep; their Morven with Orla,' said the hero. What were shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam the chase to me alone? Who shall share the nce in heaps. The fires are faint; their spoils of battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! in smoke. All is hushed; but the Kough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the n the rocks above. Lightly wheel dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning:
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