Of affection deep and true? And the spirits sunshine-like, Which o'er all their gladness threw ?- LANDON. THEMISTOCLES IN EXILE. Now I have all that earth can give Yes, all for which the mighty live, For which the brave have died ;- Yet am I happy? When my brow Is there no trace of latent woe, Still are thy towers before mine eye- Thence never but with memory And life can they depart! By day they fill each waking thought, To feel he is no longer free Who lived-and would have died for thee. Who would have died? Why died I not Then had my name, without a blot, And now-but earth at length shall know Though thrust in scorn away E'en from the land mine arm had saved, Yet though my foes have been the free, And shall be to the end. The Persian calls-but calls in vain- How could I bear to work thine ill I loved thee, when my sun of fame And now 'tis veiled in scorn and shame, "Twere vain to say I love thee more- Now know I-but 'tis done Fate soon shall lay thy victim low Then, Athens, then-THOU TOU SHALT KNOW. A LAMENT. THERE was an eye whose partial glance There was an ear that still untired Could listen to kind praise of me. There was a heart Time only made Still longed and pined for my return. There was a lip which always breathed My welcome spoke with heartfelt gladness. There was a mind, whose vigorous powers DALE. 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, But, "Father of the fatherless," O! 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, Still Lord! to thee the voice of praise I trust that he I mourn is BLEST! THE RESTORATION OF ISRAEL. KING of the dead! how long shall sweep Has Israel steeped her bread in tears; Flight, famine, shame, the scourge, the sword! OPIE. 'Tis done! Has breathed thy trumpet blast, The world within their hearts has died; The lip, involuntary prayer; The form still marked with many a stain- The slave, by Indian suns embrowned; 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? Who leads their march? Beneath His wheel Who speaks in thunder, and 'tis done! When pressed the thorn thy temples bare; 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? Scenes! that the patriarch's visioned eye Touched the pale prophet's harp with soul;- Whose sceptre shakes the solid globe, Whom shapes of fire and splendour guard? Down in the dust, aye, Israel, kneel; CROLY. THE MORNING WALK. 'Tis a bright summer morn, and the sunlight proud Fitfully glitters the woodpaths between, 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 beside that fair lady, so stately and mild, And fair as they seem in the morn's dewy light, |