WHAT is it that gives thee, mild Queen of the Night,
That secret intelligent grace?
Or why should I gaze with such pensive delight
On thy fair, but insensible face?
What gentle enchantment possesses thy beam,
Beyond the warm sunshine of day?
Thy bosom is cold as the glittering stream
Where dances thy tremulous ray!
Canst thou the sad heart of its sorrows beguile!
Or grief's fond indulgence suspend?
Yet, where is the mourner but welcomes thy smile,
And loves thee-almost as a friend!
The tear that looks bright, in the beam, as it flows,
Unmoved dost thou ever behold;-
The sorrow that loves in thy light to repose,
To thee, oft, in vain, hath been told!
Yet soothing thou art, and for ever I find,
Whilst watching thy gentle retreat,
A moonlight composure steal over my mind,
Poetical-pensive, and sweet!
I think of the years that for ever have fled ;-
Of follies by others forgot ;-
Of joys that are vanished-and hopes that are dead;
And of friendships that were-and are not!
I think of the future, still gazing the while,
As though thou'dst those secrets reveal;
But ne'er dost thou grant one encouraging smile,
To answer the mournful appeal.
Thy beams, which so bright through my casement appear,
To far distant regions extend;
Illumine the dwellings of those that are dear,
And sleep on the grave of a friend.
Then still must I love thee, mild Queen of the Night!
Since feeling and fancy agree,
To make thee a source of unfailing delight,
A friend and a solace to me!
STILL BORN NOVEMBER 6, 1817.
BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ.
A THRONE on earth awaited thee,
A nation longed to see thy face,
Heir to a glorious ancestry,
And father of a mighty race!
Vain hope, that throne thou must not fill;
Thee must that Nation ne'er behold;
Thine ancient house is heirless still,
Thy line shall never be unrolled.
The Mother knew her offspring dead;
Oh was it grief, or was it love
That broke her heart? The spirit fled
To seek her nameless child above.
Led by his natal star, she trod
His path to heaven: the meeting there,
And how they stood before their God,
The day of judgment will declare.
Look! where, amongst the porphyry columns, sits
Jove-the Olympian! Look!-His shadowy arms
Crown the brave temple of his Deity,
And round about his head the vapours come
Lowering, in dark obedience.-Nobly hath
The painter told his story-and well it shines
(Placed by some cunning hand there) from amidst
The architectural things of new creation,
That in their gilded dress rise stiffly up,
As though to do it honour.-Trooping on,
See where the crowds of worshippers (attired
In white, and carrying flowers) pass on, to hail
The Spirit supreme, by all his various names
Of father, and king, and PLUVIAN JUPITER.
He-like the god of clouds, sits motionless :
But in his quiet power there seems to be
Assent and blessing, and the elements
As self-informed, bow down obsequiously.
Above, above-temples and towers sublime,
Rocks and blue mountains, and Athenian skies
Gleam in the distance. What a scene is there!
Fit for those mighty minds intelligent,
Who, through the mists of ages rear their heads
In brave defiance of the storms of time.
And, haply, from these beautiful regions came
A power, that shed a light on man; and as
The sun draws from the earth rich fruits, drew forth
Bright thoughts and patriot feeling, and did give
To Greece its fame unparalleled.
Literary Gazette.
LAND of the brave! where lie inurned
The shrouded forms of mortal clay,
In whom the fire of valour burned
And blazed upon the battle's fray:
Land where the gallant Spartan few
Bled at Thermopyla of yore,
When death his purple garment threw
On Helle's consecrated shore!
Land of the Muse! within thy bowers
Her soul-entrancing echoes rung,
While on their course the rapid Hours
Paused at the melody she sung;—
Till every grave and every hill,
And every stream that flowed along,
From morn to night repeated still
The winning harmony of song.
Land of dead heroes-living slaves—
Shall glory gild thy clime no more?
Her banners float above thy waves,
Where proudly it hath swept before?
Hath not remembrance then a charm,
To break the fetters and the chain?
To bid thy children nerve the arm,
And strike for freedom once again?
No! coward souls the light that shone
On Leuctra's war-empurpled day—
The light that beamed on Marathon,
Hath lost its splendour, ceased to play :
And thou art but a shadow now,
With helmet shattered-spear in rust― Thy honour but a dream-and thou Despised-degraded—in the dust?
Where sleeps the spirit that of old
Dashed down to earth the Persian plume, When the loud chaunt of triumph told How fatal was the despot's doom? The bold three hundred-where are they, Who died on battle's gory breast? Tyrant's have trampled on the clay,
Where death has hushed them into rest.
Yet Ida, yet upon thy hill
A glory shines of ages fled,
And fame her light is pouring still,
Not on the living-but the dead!
But 'tis the dim sepulchral light
That sheds a faint and feeble ray,
As moon-beams on the brow of night,
When tempests sweep upon their way.
Lost land! where genius made his reign,
And reared his golden arch on high;
Where science raised her sacred fane,
Its summit peering to the sky:
Upon thy clime the midnight deep
Of ignorance hath brooded long,
And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep
The sons of science and of song.
The sun hath set, the evening storm
Hath passed in giant fury by,
To blast the beauty of thy form,
And spread its pall upon thy sky;
Gone is thy glory's diadem,
And freedom never more shall cease
To pour her mournful requiem
O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece! Literary Chronicle.
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