How oft, in their course over oceans unknown,
Where all was mysterious and awfully lone,
Hath their spirit been cheered by thy light, when the
Reflected its brilliance, in tremulous sleep!
As the vision that rose to the Lord of the world,*
When first his bright banner of faith was unfurled;
Even such, to the heroes of Spain, when their prow
Made the billows the path of their glory, wert thou!
And to me, as I traverse the world of the west,
Through deserts of beauty, in stillness that rest,
By forests and rivers untamed in their pride,
Thy beams have a language, thy course is a guide.
Shine on! my own land is a far distant spot,
And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it not;
And the eyes, which I love, though e'en now they may be
O'er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on thee!
But thou to my thoughts art a pure blazing shrine,
A fount of bright hopes and of visions divine;
And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free,
Soars high o'er the Andes, to mingle with thee!
Literary Gazette.
LOVER OF THE HOUSE OF YORK TO HIS
THE HOUSE OF LANCASTER.
If this pale rose offend thy sight,
Go place it in thy bosom fair,
"Twill blush to find itself less white,
And turn Lancastrian there.
* Alluding to the Vision of Constantine the Great.
And muttered, lost! lost! lost!'
SIR W. SCOTT, BART.
"Tis vain to grieve for what is past,
The golden hours are gone;
My own mad hand the die hath cast,
And I am left alone:
'Tis vain to grieve-I now can leave
No other bliss-yet still I grieve.
The dreadful silence of this night
Seems breathing in my ear;
I scarce can bear the lonely light
That burns oppressed and near;
I stare at it while half reclined,
And feel its thick light on my mind.
The sweetest fate have I laid waste
With a remorseless heart;
All that was beautiful and chaste,
For me seemed set apart;
But I was fashioned to defy
Such treasure, so set richly by.
How could I give up HER, whose eyes
Were filled with quiet tears,
For many a day,-when thoughts would rise,
Thoughts darkened with just fears,
Of all my vices!-Memory sees
Her eye's divine remonstrances.
A wild and wretched choice was mine,
A life of low delight;
The midnight rounds of noise and wine,
That vex the wasted night;
The bitter jest, the wearied glee,
The strife of dark society.
To those who plunged me in the throng
Of such disastrous joys,
Who led me by low craft along,
And stunned my mind with noise,-
I only wish they now could look
Upon my life's despoiled book.
When midnight finds me torn apart
From vulgar revelry,
The cold, still, madness of the heart
Comes forth, and talks with me;
Talks with me, till the sky is gray
With the chill light of breaking day.
My love is lost;-my studies marred;
My friends disgraced and changed;
My thoughts all scattered and impaired ;
My relatives estranged;
Yet can I not by day recall
My ruined spirit from its thrall. Peter Corcoran's Memoirs.
SHE lived;-what further can be said
Of all the generations dead?
She died ;-what more can be foretold
Of all the living, young or old ?
She lived with death before her eye,
As one who did not fear to die;
She died as one exchanging breath,
For immortality in death.
Her dust is here-her spirit there-
Eternity! O tell me where?
THERE's hardly motion in the air,
To waft the floating gossamer;
Along the placid azure sky,
The clouds in fleecy fragments lie,
Like the thin veil o'er beauty's face,
Conferring more endearing grace.
Again I gaze upon thy stream,
Loved scene of many a youthful dream,
Where rosy Hope, with syren tongue,
Carolled her fond alluring song,
And led my raptured soul along.—
Why is thy murmur to my ear,
So full of sorrow, yet so dear!
Why does the rustling of thy woods,
The roll of thy autumnal floods,
Re-echoed by a hollow moan,
Sounds so peculiarly thine own,
Awake in strange alternate measure,
Thoughts of wo, and thoughts of pleasure?
"Tis, that, once more, thy scenes can give
Times that in memory hardly live,
And youth again, with angel smile,
A fleeting moment can beguile;
And bid, as in the wizard's glass,
His shadowy visions gleam, and pass,
Till quick returns the present doom,
Involving all in double gloom.
BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.
THERE are murmurs on the deep, There are thunders on the heaven; Though the ocean billows sleep,
Though no cloud the sign has given; Earth that sudden storm shall feel, 'Tis a storm of man and steel.
Tribes are in their forests now,
Idly hunting ounce and deer;
Tribes are crouching in their snow
O'er their wild and wintry cheer,
Doomed to swell that tempest's roar,
Where the torrent-rain is gore.
War of old has swept the world,
Guilt has shaken strength and pride;
But the thunders, feebly hurled,
Quivered o'er the spot, and died;
When the vengeance next shall fall,
Woe to each, and woe to all.
Man hath shed Man's blood for toys,
Love and hatred, fame and gold;
Now, a mightier wrath destroys;
Earth in cureless crime grows old;
Past destruction shall be tame
To the rushing of that flame.
When the clouds of Vengeance break,
Folly shall be on the wise,
Frenzy shall be on the weak,
Nation against nation rise,
And the worse than Pagan sword
In Religion's breast be gored.
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