The sport of every ruffian's tread,

The mark for every coward's spear? No, by yon altar's sacred beams!" He cries, and with a strength that seems Not of this world, uplifts the frame Of the fallen chief, and towards the flame Bears him along; -with death-damp hand

The corpse upon the pyre he lays, Then lights the consecrated brand,

And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze, Like lightning bursts o'er Oman's sea."Now, freedom's God! I come to Thee," The youth exclaims, and with a smile Of triumph vaulting on the pile, In that last effort, ere the fires

Have harm'd one glorious limb, expires!

What shriek was that on Oman's tide?

It came from yonder drifting bark, That just has caught upon her side

The death-light-and again is dark. It is the boat-ah, why delay'd?That bears the wretched Moslem maid Confided to the watchful care

Of a small veteran band, with whom
Their generous chieftain would not share
The secret of his final doom;
But hoped when Hinda, safe and free,
Was render'd to her father's eyes,
Their pardon, full and prompt, would be
The ransom of so dear a prize.
Unconscious, thus, of Hafed's fate,
And proud to guard their beauteous freight,
Scarce had they clear'd the surfy waves
That foam around those frightful caves,
When the curst war-whoops, known so well,
Come echoing from the distant dell-
Sudden each oar, upheld and still,

Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side,
And, driving at the current's will,
They rock'd along the whispering tide,
While every eye, in mute dismay,
Was toward that fatal mountain turn'd,
Where the dim altar's quivering ray
As yet all lone and tranquil burn'd,
Oh! 'tis not, Hinda, in the power
Of fancy's most terrific touch,

To paint thy pangs in that dread hour-
Thy silent agony-'t was such
As those who feel could paint too well,
But none e'er felt and lived to tell!
'T was not alone the dreary state
Of a lorn spirit, crush'd by fate,
When, though no more remains to dread,

The panic chill will not depart ;-
When, though the inmate hope be dead,
Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart.
No-pleasures, hopes, affections gone,
The wretch may bear, and yet live on,
Like things within the cold rock found
Alive, when all's congeal'd around.
But there's a blank repose in this,
A calm stagnation, that were bliss
To the keen, burning, harrowing pain,
Now felt through all thy breast and brain-

That spasm of terror, mute, intense,
That breathless, agonized suspense,
From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching
The heart hath no relief but breaking!

Calm is the wave-heaven's brilliant lights,
Reflected dance beneath the prow;-
Time was when, on such lovely nights,

She who is there, so desolate now,
Could sit all cheerful, though alone,
And ask no happier joy than seeing
That star-light o'er the waters thrown-
No joy but that to make her blest,

And the fresh, buoyant sense of being That bounds in youth's yet careless breastItself a star, not borrowing light, But in its own glad essence bright. How different now!-but, hark, again The yell of havoc rings-brave men! In vain, with beating hearts, ye stand On the bark's edge-in vain each hand Half draws the falchion from its sheath;

All's o'er-in rust your blades may lie: He, at whose word they've scatter'd death, E'en now, this night, himself must die! Well may ye look to yon dim tower,

And ask, and wondering guess what means The battle-cry at this dead hour

Ah! she could tell you-she, who leans
Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast,
With brow against the dew-cold mast-

Too well she knows her more than life,
Her soul's first idol and its last,

Lies bleeding in that murderous strife.
But see-what moves upon the height ?
Some signal!-'tis a torch's light.

What bodes its solitary glare?
In gasping silence toward the shrine
All eyes are turn'd-thine, Hinda, thine

Fix their last failing life-beam there.
'T was but a moment-fierce and high
The death-pile blazed into the sky,
And far away o'er rock and flood

Its melancholy radiance sent; While Hafed, like a vision, stood Reveal'd before the burning pyre, Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire,

Shrined in its own grand element! ""Tis he!"-the shuddering maid exclaims,But, while she speaks, he's seen no more; High burst in air the funeral flames,

And Iran's hopes and hers are o'er!

One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave-
Then sprung, as if to reach the blaze,
Where still she fix'd her dying gaze,
And, gazing, sunk into the wave,-
Deep, deep,-where never care or pain
Shall reach her innocent heart again!

FAREWELL-farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea :) No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water, More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee.

Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, Like the wind of the south o'er a summer lute

blowing,

And hush'd all its music and wither'd its frame! But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands, Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, With nought but the sea-star to light up her tomb. And still, when the merry date-season is burning, And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old,

The happiest there, from their pastime returning, At sunset, will weep when thy story is told.

The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses

Her dark flowing hair for some festival day, Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses, She mournfully turns from the mirror away. Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero! forget thee,Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, Close, close by the side of that hero she'll set thee, Embalm'd in the innermost shrine of her heart. Farewell-be it ours to embellish thy pillow With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep;

Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber

That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept; With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath'd chamber

We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept. We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head; We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling,

And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. Farewell-farewell until pity's sweet fountain Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They'll weep for the chieftain who died on that mountain, [wave. They'll weep for the maiden who sleeps in this

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS.

THE harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more!

No more to chiefs and ladies bright

The harp of Tara swells;

The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.

OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.

Orr, in the stilly night,

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Fond memory brings the light

Of other days around me;

The smiles, the tears,

Of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone,

Now dimm'd and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends, so link'd together,

I've seen around me fall,

Like leaves in wintry weather;
I feel like one

Who treads alone,

Some banquet hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garland's dead,
And all but he departed!

Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

SACRED SONG.

THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine;
My temple, Lord! that arch of thine;
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.
My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murmuring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,
Even more than music, breathes of Thee!
I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,
All light and silence, like thy throne!
And the pale stars shall be, at night,
The only eyes that watch my rite.

Thy heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
When I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of thy wondrous name.

I'll read thy anger in the rack
That clouds awhile the day-beam's track;
Thy mercy in the azure hue
Of sunny brightness breaking through!
There's nothing bright, above, below,
From flowers that bloom to stars that głow,
But in its light my soul can see
Some feature of the Deity!

There's nothing dark, below, above,
But in its gloom I trace thy love,
And meekly wait that moment when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again!

HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED?

Has sorrow thy young days shaded,
As clouds o'er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded,
That even in sorrow were sweet.
Does Time, with his cold wing, wither
Each feeling that once was dear ?
Come, child of misfortune! hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has love to that soul so tender,
Been like our Lagenian mine?
Where sparkles of golden splendour
All over the surface shine.
But if in pursuit we go deeper,

Allured by the gleam that shone, Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper, Like love, the bright ore is gone.

Has hope, like the bird in the story
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory-
Has hope been that bird to thee?
On branch after branch alighting,

The gem did she still display; And, when nearest and most inviting, Then waft the fair gem away?

If thus the sweet hours have fleeted,
When sorrow herself look'd bright;
If thus the fond hope has cheated,
That led thee along so light;
If thus, too, the cold world wither
Each feeling that once was dear,-
Come, child of misfortune! hither,
I'll weep with thee tear for tear.

OH NO! NOT EVEN WHEN FIRST WE LOVED.

Он, по!-not e'en when first we loved,
Wert thou as dear as now thou art;
Thy beauty then my senses moved,
But now thy virtues bind my heart.
What was but passion's sigh before,
Has since been turn'd to reason's vow;
And though I then might love thee more,
Trust me, I love thee better now!

Although my heart, in earlier youth, Might kindle with more wild desire; Believe me, it has gain'd in truth

Much more than it has lost in fire. The flame now warms my inmost core That then but sparkled on my brow; And though I seem'd to love thee more, Yet, oh, I love thee better now!"

THE CONFLAGRATION OF MOSCOW.

HER royal nest the Russian eagle fires, And to the wild recess revenged-retires; Her talons unexpended lightnings arm, And high resentments all her courage warm. Tempt not, thou fiend of France! her arduous track; Ambition spurs thee on-defeat shall call thee back. False friends in rear, in front a stubborn foe, Thy caterer, famine, and thy couch the snow: Then view that fiery cope with ghastly smile, 'Tis thy ambition's grand funereal pile.

Blaze on, ye gilded domes and turrets high, And like a furnace glow, thou trembling sky! Be lakes of fire the tyrant's sole domain, And let that fiend o'er flames and ruins reign; Doom'd, like the rebel Angel, to be shown A fiery dungeon, where he hoped a throne. Blaze on! thou costliest, proudest sacrifice E'er lit by patriot hands, or fann'd by patriot's sighs.

By stubborn constancy of soul, a rock That firmly meets but to return the shock,一 By all that power inflicts, or slavery bearsBy all that freedom prompts, or valour daresBy all that bids the bright historic page Of Greece and Rome inspire each after ageBy all of great, that must our wonder raise In direst, worst extremities, we praise A deed that animates, exalts, inflames

A world in arms from Tanais to the Thames! Hail! nobly daring, wisely desperate deed: Moscow is Paris, should the Gaul succeed!

Then perish temple, palace, fort, or tower That screens a foeman in this vengeful hour; Let self-devotion rule this righteous cause, And triumph o'er affections, customs, laws; With Roman daring be the flag unfurl'dThemselves they conquer'd first, and then the world. Be this the dirge o'er Moscow's mighty grave, She stood to foster, but she fell to save! Her flames like Judah's guardian pillar rose To shield her children, to confound her foes; That mighty beacon must not blaze in vain, It rouses earth, and flashes o'er the main.

The sacrifice is made, the deed is done: Russia! thy woes are finish'd, Gaul's begun! Soon to return-retire! There is a time When earthly virtue must not cope with crime. Husband thy strength, let not a life be lost, One patriot's life is worth the Gallic host; Unbend a while thy bow, more strongly still To force thy shaft, and all thy quivers fill; Crouch'd like the tiger, prescient of the prey, Collect thy might, augmented by delay; Still as the calm, when on her siren breast The slumbering earthquake and the whirlwind rest.

To courage, strength to strength, cool wisdom bring;

Nurse every nerve, and plume thy ruffled wing;
Firm, but composed, -prepared, but tranquil prove,
As the dread eagle at the throne of Jove!
Each arm provide, and engine of the war,
Till rout and havoc answer-Here we are!
And valour, steel'd by virtuous energy,

To just revenge shall utter-Come with me!

From pine-ploughed Baltic, to that ice-bound coast,
Where desolation lives, and life is lost,
Bid all thy Centaur-sons around thee close,
Suckled in storms, and cradled on the snows,
Hard as that sea of stone, that belts their strand
With marble wave, more solid than the land;
Men fiercer than their skies, inured to toil,
And as the grave tenacious of the spoil,-
Throng'd as the locust, as the lion brave,
Fleet as the pard that hies her young to save ;
Tell them their king, their father takes the field,
A host his presence and his cause a shield !
Nor strike the blow, till all thy northern hive,
Concentering thick, for death or glory strive;
Then round the invader swarm, his death-fraught
cloud,

While the white desert girds him like a shroud,-
Full on his front and rear, the battle-tide
With arm of lightning, hoof of thunder guide;
Soon shall the Gaul his transient triumph rue-
Fierce burns the victim, and the altar too!

Now sinks the blood-red sun, eclipsed by light,
And yields his throne to far more brilliant night.
Roused by the flames, the blast, with rushing sound,
Both fed and fann'd the ruin that it found.
Long stood each stately tower and column high,
And saw the molten gulf beneath them lie:
Long rear'd their heads the aspiring flames above,
As stood the giants when they warr'd with Jove,-
Conquer'd at length, with hideous crash they fall,
And one o'erwhelming havoc covers all.
Nor Ætna, nor Vesuvius, though combined
In horrid league, and chafed by every wind
That from the hoarse Æolian cave is driven,
Could with such wreck astound both earth and

heaven.

Rage, elements! wreck, ravage all ye can,
Ye are not half so fierce as man to man! [mand,

Wide and more wide, self-warn'd, without com-
Gaul's awe-struck files their circling wings expand;
Through many a stage of horrors had they pass'd-
The climax this, the direst and the last;
Albeit unused o'er others' griefs to moan,
Soon shall they purchase feeling from their own.
From flank to centre, and from rear to van,
The billowing, crackling confiagration ran,-
Wraps earth in sulphurous wave, and now the skies
With tall colossal magnitude defies, -
Extends her base, while sword and spear retire,
Weak as the bulrush to the lava's ire.
Long had that circle, belted wide and far
By burnish'd helm, and bristling steel of war,
Presented hideous to the Gallic-host

One blazing sea, one adamantine coast!
High o'er their head the bickering radiance towers,
Or falls from clouds of smoke in scorching showers:
Beneath their crimson concave long they stood
Like bordering pines, when lightning fires the wood,
And as they hemm'd that grim horizon in,
Each read in each the terrors of the scene.

Some fear'd-accusing conscience waked the fear, The day of wrath and retribution near, [proclaim, Deem'd that they heard that thunderous Voice "Thou moon, to blood be turned; thou earth, to flame!"