Upon its mountain summit spread, In splendour beyond man's rude tread! And o'er their pomp, emerging far, The bride, like morning's virgin star. And soon along the eve may swim The chorus of the bridal hymn; Again the bright processions move To take the last sweet veil from Love. Then speed thee on, thou glorious sun! Swift rise,-swift set,-be bright-and done. Literary Gazette. THERMOPYLE. BY LORD BYRON. THEY fell devoted, but undying; He looks to her, and rushes on Liberal. BELSHAZZAR. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. HOUR of an Empire's overthrow ! The Princes from the feast were gone, The Idol flame was burning low ;— 'Twas midnight upon Babylon. That night the feast was wild and high; The last deep cup of wrath was drained. 'Mid jewelled roof and silken pall, Belshazzar on his couch was flung; A burst of thunder shook the hall He heard but 'twas no mortal tongue : 'King of the East, the trumpet calls, That calls thee to a tyrant's grave; A curse is on thy palace walls- A surge is in Euphrates' bed, 'Behold a tide of Persian steel! A torrent of the Median car; Like flame their gory banners wheel; Rise, King, and arm thee for the war!' Belshazzar gazed; the voice was past— The rushing of a mighty plume. He listened ; all again was still ; He slept :-in sleep wild murmurs came; ، Sleep, Sultan ! 'tis thy final sleep ; He started, 'mid the battle's yell, New Times. WITHERED VIOLETS. BY WILLIAM READ, ESQ. LONG years have passed, pale flowers, since you Were culled, and given in brightest bloom, By one whose eyes eclipsed your blue, Whose breath was like your own perfume. Long years but though your bloom be gone, When all that blessed its birth have fled. Those hues and hopes will pass away;— Oh what is left when these decay!— London Magazine. THE DEAD SEA. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. THE wind blows chill across those gloomy waves ;- Yes, on that plain, by wild waves covered now, Lovely and splendid all,-but Sodom's soul Was stained with blood, and pride, and perjury; Long warned, long spared, till her whole heart was foul, And fiery vengeance on its clouds came nigh. And still she mocked, and danced, and, taunting, spoke It came !-The thunder on her slumber broke :- Yet, in her final night, amid her stood Immortal messengers, and pausing Heaven Pleaded with man, but she was quite imbued, Her last hour waned she scorned to be forgiven! 'Twas done!-Down poured at once the sulphurous shower, Down stooped, in flame, the heaven's red canopy. Oh! for the arm of God, in that fierce hour!— 'Twas vain, nor help of God or man was nigh. They rush, they bound, they howl, the men of sin ;— PARIS! thy soul is deeper dyed with blood, And long, and blasphemous, has been thy day; And, Paris, it were well for thee that flood, Or fire, could cleanse thy damning stains away. Literary Gazette. SONG, WRITTEN FOR AN INDIAN AIR. BY THE LATE PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. I ARISE from dreams of thee, In the first sweet sleep of night, And a spirit, in my feet, Hath led me,-who knows how !- The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream,. The Champak odours fail, Like sweet thoughts in a dream. Beloved as thou art! The gentle dews of sleep Are falling on thine eye; And I, alas! must weep, Thou know'st not I am nigh! My cheek is cold and wan, My heart beats loud and fast ; O! press it to thine own, Or it will break at last! Liberal. |