LINES WRITTEN BENEATH THE HEAD OF TYRTEUS. GLORIOUS Bard! whose Lyre was heard Amid the armed ring, As victory were upon each word And death on every string!— And, jeered by mocking foemen nigh, The Bard took up his burning song ; Each heart beat high, each arm grew strong: That darken round the coward's name; Told how the mother's cheek would burn To hear her son had fled, How the young maiden's smile would turn 'The war strength of thy lover's brand When trumpet, shout, and song are swelling It was enough.—Each sword was out, The mountains trembled in the shout Of men prepared like men to die For Sparta and for victory! Literary Gazette. L. E. L. BALAK AND BALAAM. UPON the hill the Prophet stood; King Balak in the rocky vale, Flashed to the Sun his men of mail. 'Twas Morn ;-'twas Noon ;-the sacrifice 'Twas Eve;-the flame was feeble now, 'Now Curse, or die'-The gathering roar The Prophet was in prayer; he rose, He saw their camp, like endless clouds, Mixed with the horizon's distant blue; Saw on the plain their marshalled crowds; Heard the high strain their trumpets blew. A sudden spirit on him came, A sudden fire was in his eye; His tongue was touched with hallowed flame, The Curser' swelled with prophecy. "How shall I curse whom God hath blessed? With whom he dwells, with whom shall dwell!' He clasped his pale hands on his breast, 'Then, be thou blest, O Israel!' 'Be Israel cursed,' was in his soul, A whirlwind from the desart rushed, Broad in the East a new-born STAR 'I shall behold it, but not now! 'All power is in his hand; the world 'He comes, a stranger to his own! With the wild bird and fox he lies The King! who makes the stars his throne, A wanderer lives-an outcast dies! 'Proud Israel! o'er thy diadem What blood shall for his blood be poured! Until that Star again shall beam, Again JEHOVAH be the Lord!' The Prophet ceased in awe; the STAR And sweet and solemn echoes flowed Then vanished in the heights of Heaven! New Times. THE EYE. WHAT is the little lurking spell ? That hovers round the eye When tearless-it can speak of woe; Can beam with pity on the poor- Can tell that it will much endure- Now brightly raised, or now depressed With every shade of feeling It is the mirror of the breast The thought, the soul revealing! Oh! tones are false-and words are weak The tutored slaves at call The eye-the eye alone can speak Unfettered-tell us all! PULCI J. THE CUP OF CIRCE. All have drank of the eup of the enchantress. SHE sat a crowned Queen-the ruby's light Their power was on the heart. One white hand raised A white haired man, too, hung upon the brim— For passion's madness;-but love's soul was there- Then sighed that low sweet sigh, whose tender tone Is witching, from its echo of our own. The painter's skill has seized a moment where Her hand is wreathing mid his raven hair; |