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Of affection deep and true ?
And the spirits sunshine-like,
Which o'er all their gladness threw ?-

Gone, gone—they all are gone.

LANDON.

THEMISTOCLES IN EXILE.

Now I have all that earth can give

Of pageantry and pride;
Yes, all for which the mighty live,

For which the brave have died
A thousand slaves obsequious wait

My nod, as 'twere the frown of fate

And what remains beside ?
The empty name is all I need
To seem to be a King indeed !
Yet am I happy? When my brow

The bright tiara bears
Is there no trace of latent woe,

Of inly gnawing cares ?-
Oh! what is sadder than the smile
Assumed and worn but to beguile?

Yet still the mask it wears,
Nor would I that the world should see,
O Athens ! how I pine for thee!
Still are thy towers before mine eye-

Thine image on my heart;
Thence never but with memory

And life can they depart !
By day they fill each waking thought,
By night in dreams are backward brought-

And then from sleep I start,
To feel he is no longer free

Who lived—and would have died for thee.
Who would have died? Why died I not

On thy triumphant day!-
Then had my name, without a blot,

Thine annals graced for aye :-
And now—but earth at length shall know
I was not, could not be thy foe,

Though thrust in scorn away
E'en from the land mine arm had saved,
To tyrant-lords, and realms enslaved.

Yet though my foes have been the free,

The lord of slaves my friend,
Still, Athens ! is my heart with thee,

And shall be to the end.
The Persian calls—but calls in vain
One way remains to burst his chain,

And e'en in death defend-
How could I bear to work thine ill
Despite my wrongs, who love thee still ?

I loved thee, when my sun of fame

In all its brightness shone ;
And now 'tis veiled in scorn and shame,

Yet love I madly on.
'Twere vain to say I love thee more-
I knew not how I loved before

Now know 1-but 'tis done-
Fate soon shall lay thy victim low-
Then, Athens, then—THOU TOU SHALT KNOW.

Dale.

A L A MENT.

THERE was an eye whose partial glance

Could ne'er my numerous failings see; There was an ear that still untired

Could listen to kind praise of me.

There was a heart Time only made

For me with fonder feelings burn; And which whene'er, alas, I roved,

Still longed and pined for my return.

There was a lip which always breathed

E’en short farewells with tones of sadness; There was a voice whose eager sound

My welcome spoke with heartfelt gladness.

There was a mind, whose vigorous powers

On mine its fostering influence threw; And called my humble talents forth.

Till thence its dearest joys it drew,

There was a love that oft for me

With anxious fears would overflow; And wept and pray for me, and sought

From future ills to guard—but now

That eye is closed, and deaf that ear,

That lip and voice are mute for ever! And cold that heart of faithful love,

Which death alone from mine could sever !

And lost to me that ardent mind,

Which loved my varied tasks to see ; And, Oh! of all the praise I gained,

This was the dearest far to me.

Now I, unloved, uncheered, alone,

Life's dreary wilderness must tread, Till He who loves the broken heart

In mercy bids me join the dead.

But, “ Father of the fatherless,"

0! Thou that hear'st the orphan's cry, And “ dwellest with the contrite heart,"

As well as in “ Thy place on high.".-
O Lord! though like a faded leaf,

That's severed from its parent tree,
I struggle down life's storiay tide,
That awful tide which leads to Thee;-

Still Lord! to thee the voice of praise

Shall spring triumphant from my breast; Since, though I tread a weary way,

I trust that he 1 mourn is BLEST!

OPIE. .

THE RESTORATION OF ISRAEL.

King of the dead! how long shall sweep
Thy wrath ! how long thy outcasts weep !
Two thousand agonizing years
Has Israel steeped her bread in tears ;
The vial on her head been poured-
Flight, famine, shame, the scourge, the sword !

'Tis done! Has breathed thy trumpet blast,
The Tribes at length have wept their last !
On rolls the host! From land and wave
The earth sends up th' unransomed slave !
There rides no glittering chivalry,
No banner purples in the sky;
The world within their hearts has died ;
Two thousand years have slain their pride!
The look of pale remorse is there,
The lip, involuntary prayer ;
The form still marked with many a stain-
Brand of the soil, the scourge, the chain ;
The serf of Afric's fiery ground;
The slave, by Indian suns embrowned;
The weary drudges of the oar,
By the swart Arab's poisoned shore,
The gatherings of earth's wildest tract-
On bursts the living cataract !
What strength of man can check its speed ?
They come—the Nation of the Freed;
Who leads their march ? Beneath His wheel
Back rolls the sea, the mountains reel !
Before their tread His trump is blown,
Who speaks in thunder, and 'tis done!
King of the dead! Oh, not in vain
Was thy long pilgrimage of pain;
Oh, not in vain arose thy prayer,
When pressed the thorn thy temples bare ;
Oh, not in vain the voice that cried,
To spare thy maddened homicide!
Even for this hour thy heart's blood streamed !
They come !--the Host of the Redeemed !

What flames upon the distant sky?
'Tis not the comet's sanguine dye
'Tis not the lightning's quivering spire,
'Tis not the sun's ascending fire.
And now, as nearer speeds their march,
Expands the rainbow's mighty arch ;
Though there has burst no thundercloud,
No flash of death the soil has ploughed,
And still ascends before their gaze,
Arch upon arch, the lovely blaze ;
Still, as the gorgeous clouds unfold,
Rise towers and domes, immortal mould.

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Scenes ! that the patriarch's visioned eye
Beheld, and then rejoiced to die ;-
That, like the altar's burning coal,
Touched the pale prophet's harp with soul;
That the throned seraphs long to see,
Now given, thou slave of slaves, to thee !
Whose city this ? What potentate
Sits there the King of Time and Fate ?
Whom glory covers like a robe,
Whose sceptre shakes the solid globe,
Whom shapes of fire and splendour guard ?
There sits the Man, “ whose face was marred,"
To whom archangels bow the knee-
The weeper in Gethsemane !
Down in the dust, aye, Israel, kneel;
For now thy withered heart can feel !
Aye, let thy wan cheek burn like flame,
There sits thy glory and thy shame!

CROLY.

THE MORNING WALK.

'Tis a bright summer morn, and the sunlight proud
Gleams on the water, and sleeps on the cloud,
Fitfully glitters the woodpaths between,
And casts a broad glow on the shadowy green.

And a lovely lady is walking there,
Placid, and gentle, and smiling, and fair,
With the grace of a queen in her gay palace bowers,
And a foot that seems born to tread only on flowers.

And beside that fair lady, so stately and inild,
Mild, stately, and graceful—a tottering child,
With her dimpled hand on her dimpled knee,
Stands, like a model of infancy,

And fair as they seem in the morn's dewy light,
The beautiful child and the lady so bright;
We feel as we viewed them a sympathy live
Truer, purer, and deeper, than beauty can give.

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