"Yes, ye who gasp'd near Ismael's * tower, "The victims of unhallow'd power;
Or, ye who by the Dwina's stream,
"Beneath oppression's banner fell, "Whose death-bell was the widow's scream, "And mailed conquest's' vaunting yell, "Now, o'er her fall, pour triumph's strain. "And thout, whose too-forgiving heart, "Gor'd by rancour's venom'd dart, "Oft has felt her harpy fang
"Arm with fresh poignancy each pang, "Head, head the immolated train:
"In night's wan noon, and murky glare, "With anguish'd mien, with wounds all bare, "Dance yelling round her gore cemented tomb; "Swell, swell the grave's impervious gloom;
"Chase her cold sleep with wildest screams of woe; "Bid the vengeful torments glow;
"And mark, in characters of blood, the vile assassin's "doom."
THE sun to mortals is the source of light:
Yet should he dare insult me with his rays,
I would revolt against th' oppressive blaze,
Scorn him, and rather dwell in endless night.
* The fortress of Ismael was taken by the Russians, after a continued siege of seven months; the last assault alone cost the lives of 15,000 men.
+ Peter III. her husband.
ON THE FIRST AND SECOND VERSES OF THE 14TH CHAPTER OF THE BOOK OF JOB.
WRITTEN BY DR. RUSSELL, ON THE DEATH OF AN ONLY SON.
WHEN now the destin❜d period run
Mature arrives the wish'd-for birth,
Lo! the fond parents hail their son,
And all around is joy and mirth.
Swift fly the hours, the days, the years,
And, see the child to man is grown;
But manhood fails, grim death appears,
And the poor phantom life is flown.
Thus, at the dawn of genial day,
The gilded flow'r from earth's soft womb Comes smiling forth, in rich array,
And glads all nature with its bloom.
But, ah! ere evening shadows rise,
Or setting sun-beams quit the plain,
The lovely transient blossom dies,
And shrinks to earth's soft womb again.
GLIMMERS now each silvery star,
Sinks each sound upon the gale;
Save the rural bells afar,
From the steeple in the vale.
Once as Ellen wander'd there,
Edwin met the musing fair:
"Ellen! sister! whence that sigh?
"Heaves that pensive bosom why?
"Does a gentle passion, pure,
"Artless, angel-holy, move.
"Ellen's breast, her heart allure—
"Sister Ellen! is it love?"
Sighs, suppressing now their swell,
Edwin mark'd-a tear too fell.
"Ellen! whence the half-form'd sigh?
"And the tender tear-drop why?"
'Twas not love. Too long the maid,
Edwin's open, noble mien,
Sickness' hue had seen o'ershade,
Death's approaches silent seen.
Sorrow held her bosom's sway,
But fond Ellen could not say:
"Brother! 'tis for thee I sigh;
"Dearest brother! wilt thou die?"
On his cheek life's sunset glow
Linger'd ere the spirit fled;
Some sad months have pass'd, and now
Ellen, Ellen, too, is dead!
Traveller! while their native bells,
And the tale each rustic tells,
Claim thine ear, bedew thine eye,
Think each sinking peal a sigh.
PLEDGE of sorrow, seal of pleasure,
Mingling all that's sweet and dear,
Pity's balm, and passion's treasure,
Gem of Feeling, artless tear.
Speaking silence, dumb confession,
Balm that soothes the wounded heart,
Beauty's shield, and Truth's profession,
Pledge of faith when lovers part.
Dew from heaven, affection's bliss,
Mortal joy to angels dear,
Sister of the virgin kiss,
Gem of feeling, artless tear!
THE PRAISES OF ITALY;
VIRGIL'S GEORGICS, BOOK II. VERSE 109.
A metrical Exercise on the compressive Energy of the English Language, being translated into Rhyme, line for line.
Not every soil produces every tree.
With osiers, streams; with alders, fens agree;
In rocky mountains, steril ash delight,
In shores, the myrtle; hills expos'd to light,
The vine. The yew defies the boreal blight.
The limits of the cultur'd world, behold!
The eastern Arabs, the Geloni bold
Have different woods: the Indian realms, dispense
Dark ebony; Sabæa, frankincense.
Why speak of odorous shrubs, that load the breeze
With balm ?The acanthus berry; and the trees
Of Afric, bearing fleeces long and white;
Or Serians, cloth'd in fibrous foliage light;
Or what the groves of sea-beat India bear,-
Limit of earth! where, towering high in air,
None o'er the trees can urge the arrowy flight:
Tho' skill'd the nation in the distant fight.
The Median boughs, yield gums and bitter juice
From healthful fruits; and none of kindlier use,
When stepdames fierce the treacherous goblet fill,
Mingling dire herbs with words of deadlier skill,
From the dark veins can force the secret ill.
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