THE DEAD SEA. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. THE wind blows chill across those gloomy waves ;— Yes, on that plain, by wild waves covered now, Lovely and splendid all, but Sodom's soul Was stained with blood, and pride, and perjury; Long warned, long spared, till her whole heart was foul, And fiery vengeance on its clouds came nigh. And still she mocked, and danced, and, taunting, spoke It came !-The thunder on her slumber broke :- Yet, in her final night, amid her stood Immortal messengers, and pausing Heaven Pleaded with man, but she was quite imbued, Her last hour waned she scorned to be forgiven! "Twas done!-Down poured at once the sulphurous shower, Down stooped, in flame, the heaven's red canopy. Oh! for the arm of God, in that fierce hour!— "Twas vain, nor help of God or man was nigh. They rush, they bound, they howl, the men of sin ;Still stooped the cloud, still burst the thicker blaze; The earthquake heaved !-Then sank the hideous din !— Yon wave of darkness o'er their ashes strays. PARIS! thy soul is deeper dyed with blood, And long, and blasphemous, has been thy day; And, Paris, it were well for thee that flood, Or fire, could cleanse thy damning stains away. Literary Gazette. SONG, WRITTEN FOR AN INDIAN AIR. BY THE LATE PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. I ARISE from dreams of thee, Hath led me,-who knows how !— The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream, The Champak odours fail, Like sweet thoughts in a dream. It dies upon her heart :- Beloved as thou art! The gentle dews of sleep Are falling on thine eye; And I, alas! must weep, Thou know'st not I am nigh! My cheek is cold and wan, My heart beats loud and fast ; O! press it to thine own, Or it will break at last! Liberal. STANZAS, WRITTEN ON THE BACK OF A LETTER. BY ISMAEL FITZADAM. BLEST be the page affection traced! And blest the spirit, breathing love, Sweet messenger!-Thou com'st to bless- No, not alone, nor wholly lost, While love's fond sympathy can save; God! is not this the very hand, When stretched on sickness' rack I lay, That ministered the cooling cup To my parched lip ?—No cup of glee, Or, wet with tears, was lifted up To Heaven, in fervent prayer for me? Yes, sister of my soul! the part Was thine long months to watch and weep The anguish, whose convulsive start Beleaguered Nature's strife to view, In that dark hour, when every tie, That loosed from earth, and led to Heaven. Or, with unwearied labour, prest The nerve where agonies were born,' Soothing my midnights-not of rest— Nor anxious for relief at morn. And she-one other not less dear, Like chords in music's holiest mood, Oh, nought of pure on earth beneath, Can match the purity, the faith, Take, thou, the fond return of mine, 'Tis all, save verse, that's mine to give,— Till life's last pulses cease, 'tis thine, And life itself it must outlive. A DRINKING SONG. BY LORD BYRON. FILL the goblet again, for I never before Felt the glow that now gladdens my heart to its core ! Let us drink!—Who would not? Since through life's varied round In the goblet alone no deception is found. I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; I have basked in the beam of a dark rolling eye; I have loved!-Who has not?-But what tongue will declare, That pleasure existed whilst passion was there! In the bright days of youth-when the heart's in its spring, I had friends!—Who has not ?—But what tongue will avow The breast of a mistress some boy may estrange; Friendship shifts with the sun-beam ;—thou never can'st change! Thou grow'st old!-Who does not ?-But on earth what appears, Whose virtues like thine but increase with their years. Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, We are jealous!—Who's not ?-Thou hast no such alloy, Then the season of Youth and its jollities past, For refuge we fly to the goblet at last; There we find-Do we not ?-In the flow of the soul, That truth, as of yore is confined to the bowl. When the Box of Pandora was opened on earth, Hope was left!-Was she not?-But the goblet we kiss, |