Behold, where with relentless lock
Ye chained Prometheus* to his rock,
And, when his tortured bosom ceased
Your vulture's savage beak to feast,
Where fathom-deep ye dug his cell,

And built and barr'd his coffin down
Half doubting if even death could quell
Such terrible renown;

Now 'mid the torch's solemn glare,
And bended knee and muttered prayer,
Within that green sepulchral glen
Uncover'd groups of warrior men
Breathless perform the high behest
Of winning back, in priceless trust,
For the regenerated West,

Your victim's mighty dust.

Hark! how they burst your cramps and rings

Ha, ha! ye banded, baffled kings!

Stout men! delve on with axe and bar,

Ye're watched from yonder restless star:
Hew the tough masonry away—

Bid the tomb's ponderous portals fly!
And firm your sounding lever's sway,
And loud your clanking hammers ply;

Nor falter though the work be slow,
Ye something gain in every blow,
While deep each heart in chorus sings,
Ha, ha! ye banded, baffled kings!
Brave men! delve in with axe and bar,
Ye're watched from yonder glorious star.
'Tis morn-the marble floor is cleft,
And slight and short the labour left.
'Tis noon-they wind the windlass now
To heave the granite from his brow:
Back to each gazer's waiting heart
The life-blood leaps with anxious start-
Down Bertrand's cheek the tear-drop steals-
Low in the dust Las Cases kneels;

"Hear, hear Prometheus from his rock appeal
To air, earth, ocean, all who felt or feel."
THE AGE OF BRONZE

(Oh! tried and trusted-still, as long
As the true heart's fidelity

Shall form the theme of harp and song,
High Bards shall sing of ye!)
One moment, and thy beams, O sun!
The bier of him shall look upon,
Who, save the Heaven-expell'd alone
Dared envy thee thy blazing throne;
Who haply oft, with gaze intent,
And sick from victory's vulgar war
Panted to sweep the firmament,
And dash thee from thy car,
And cursed the clay that still confined
His narrow conquests to mankind.

"Tis done-his chiefs are lifting now
The shroud from that tremendous brow,
That with the lightning's rapid might
Illumed Marengo's awful night—
Flash'd over Lodi's murderous bridge,
Swept Prussia from red Jena's ridge,
And broke once more the Austrian sword
By Wagram's memorable ford.
And may Man's puny race that shook
Before the terrors of that look,
Approach unshrinking now,
How far corruption's mastery
Has tamed the tyrant tamer! Raise
That silken cloud, what meets the gaze?

and see

The scanty dust or whitening bones,
Or fleshless jaws' horrific mirth,
Of him whose threshold rose on thrones,
A mockery now to earth?

No-even as though his haughty clay
Scoff'd at the contact of decay,

And from his mind's immortal flame
Itself immortalised became,

Tranquilly there Napoleon lies reveal'd

Like a king sleeping on his own proud shield,
Harness'd for conflict, and that eagle-star

Whose fire-eyed Legion foremost waked the war,
Still on his bosom, tarnish'd too and dim,
As if hot battle's cloud had lately circled him.

Fast fades the vision-from that glen
Wind slow those aching-hearted men,
While every mountain echo floats,
Fill'd with the bugle's regal notes-
And now the gun's redoubled roar
Fills the lone peak and mighty main,
Beneath his glorious Trïcolor
Napoleon rests again!

And France's galley soon the sail
Shall spread triumphant to the gale;
Till, lost upon the lingering eye,
It melts and mingles in the sky.
Let Paris, too, prepare a show,
And deck her streets in gaudy woe;

And rear a more than kingly shrine,
Whose taper's blaze shall ne'er be dim,
And bid the sculptor's art divine
Be lavish'd there for HIM.
And let him take his rest serene,
(Even so he will'd it) by the Seine;
But ever to the poet's heart,

Or pilgrim musing o'er those pages
(Replete with marvels) that impart
His story unto Ages;

The spacious azure of yon sea
Alone his minster floor shall be,

Coped by the stars-red evening's smile
His epitaph; and thou, rude Isle,
Austerely-brow'd and thunder-rent
Napoleon's only monument!

IRISH CASTLES.

"SWEET Norah, come here, and look into the fire;
Maybe in its embers good luck we might see;
But don't come too near, or your glances so shining,
Will put it clean out, like the sunbeams, machree!

"Just look 'twixt the sods, where so brightly they're burning, There's a sweet little valley, with rivers and trees,

And a house on the bank, quite as big as the squire's— Who knows but some day, we'll have something like these? "And now there's a coach, and four galloping horses,

A coachman to drive, and a footman behind; That betokens some day we will keep a fine carriage, And dash through the streets with the speed of the wind.”

As Dermot was speaking, the rain down the chimney,
Soon quenched the turf-fire on the hollowed hearth-stone:
While mansion and carriage, in smoke-wreaths evanished,
And left the poor dreamers dejected and lone.

Then Norah to Dermot, these words softly whisper'd,— ""Tis better to strive, than to vainly desire;

And our little hut by the roadside is better

Than palace, and servants, and coach--IN THE FIRE!"

'Tis years since poor Dermot his fortune was dreaming—
Since Norah's sweet counsel effected its cure;
For, ever since then hath he toiled night and morning,
And now his snug mansion looks down on the Suir.

THE SALLY FROM SALERNO.

BY G. H. SUPPLE.

[“The sally from Salerno was not properly an event of the Crusades. Its date was 1016, while the first Crusade was not until 1096. Its connexion with those wars, however, the actors in it having been pilgrims returning from the Holy Land and their Saracen enemy, will, perhaps, justify it as a subject for a ballad under this title. The inducements to those wars were the Moslem's oppression of the Christian pilgrims, and the Moslem irruptions into Christendom, which made it necessary to bridle that power by a Christian kingdom in the East. The Princes of Salerno were of the Longobard race, which will account for Waimar's Teutonic name and his daughter's. Historians tell us he offered the Normans an honourable settlement in his country in gratitude for their heroism, which they declined, but promised to send some of their countrymen, who accordingly came and founded the Norman dynasties of South Italy."]

CHRISTIAN Monk and Paynim Molla have the parchment clerkly scrolled,

Fair Salerno's safe from Saracen, for ransom weighed in gold.

"God has sent us good King Waimar for a ruler mild and sage, To protect his trembling people from the ruthless Moslem's rage. Stranger guests, ho! Norman pilgrims, what portends your strange array;

Why those shields, and casques, and corslets, as if bound for joust or fray?

Wherefore now, ye grim-browed strangers, spur your steeds with lance in rest;

Know ye not Salerno's ransom'd at the Saracen's behest?"

"Out upon ye, pallid cravens, ope your gates, ye hearts of hare, With our knightly swords and God's good help, we'll keep our honour fair."

Down they rode, those Norman pilgrims, on the Paynim straightly there.

Careless seem they, lightly deem they those beleag'ring myriads bold,

Of the band so scant that cometh, they must bear the promised gold.

"God is great, tho' slave or maiden of the Giaour have we none, Well he wrought, Suleyman Aga, goodly ransom have we won. Featly ride those two-score riders, knights they seem, not slaves to kneel

Dogs of Nazareth, no gold they bear, but gleaming Norman steel." Prayed a prayer each belted warrior, each a lady's name did say, And the thunder-cloud burst, crashing thro' the infidel array. Help, Mahomet! Damascus blades are dealing blows around in vain,

Sternly plies each Christian's labour, till their dripping sabres rain From a thousand cloven Paynim bloody ransom on the plain.

"Tis sweet evening; fading sunset sheds a gorgeous radiance down On that beauteous bay and bloody strand, and fair Salerno's town. Thro' Prince Waimar's palace gardens and tall groves the sunbeams rolled,

Thro' his windows rare, and chambers fair, and carvings quaint and old,

Till they kissed his gentle daughter there, the dark-eyed Henegild, As so pensively she gazed abroad, her eyes with sadness filled; Till they lit a gallant's youthful face, who sat that maid beside, Lit his curling locks, his open brow, and beardless lip of prideSir Asclittin, bold Asclittin, he whose foremost lance and shield Broke to-day the Moslem leaguer and the heart of Henegild— Sir Asclittin, bold Asclittin, peerless he in bower and field.