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I have left a feverish pillow

For thy soothing song;

Alas, each fairy billow

An image bears along, Look where I will, I only see

One face too much beloved by me.

In vain my heart remembers
What pleasure used to be,
My past thoughts are but embers
Consumed by love for thee.

I wish to love thee less-and feel
A deeper fondness o'er me steal.

CARTHAGE.

"Early on the morning following, I walked to the site of the great Carthage,-of that town, at the sound of whose name mighty Rome herself had so often trembled,-of Carthage, the mistress of powerful and brave armies, of numerous fleets, and of the world's commerce, and to whom Africa, Spain, Sardinia, Corsica, Sicily, and Italy herself bowed in submission as to their sovereign-in short,-" Carthago, dives opum, studiisque asperrima belli :" I was prepared to see but few vestiges of its former grandeur, it had so often suffered from the devastating effects of war, that I knew many could not exist; but my heart sunk within me when ascending one of its hills, (from whose summit the eye embraces a view of the whole surrounding country to the edge of the sea.) I beheld nothing more than a few scattered and shapeless masses of masonry. The scene that once was animated by the presence of nearly a million of warlike inhabitants is now buried in the silence of the grave; no living soul appearing, if we occasionally except a soldier going or returning from the fort, or the solitary and motionless figure of an Arab, watching his flocks from the summit of the fragment of some former palace or temple."-SIR G. TEMPLE'S Excursions in the Mediter

ranean.

But the perishing still lurks

In thy most immortal works;
Thou dost build thy home on sand,
And the palace-girdled strand
Fadeth like a dream.

Thy great victories only show
All is nothingness below.

LORD MELBOURNE.

Ir is a glorious task to guide
The vessel through the dashing tide
When dark is the tumultuous sea
And thunder clouds are on the lea,
While war notes mount upon the wind
From the fierce storm that rides behind.

And such a task it is to steer
A people in their high career,
When old opinions war, and change
Is sudden, violent, and strange;
And men recall the past, to say,
So shall not be the coming day.

Such time is passing o'er our land,
New thoughts arise-new hopes expand,
And man knows in his own strong will
It is his purpose to fulfil :

In the fierce contest of such hour,
How mighty is the leader's power.

More glorious than the conqueror's brand,
The rule intrusted to such hand.
From it the past and present claim

The rights they teach, the hopes they frame

Do what the island of the free;
What England should expect of thee!

Low it lieth-earth to earth

All to which that earth gave birth—

Palace, market-street, and fane;

Dust that never asks in vain,

Hath reclaim'd its own again.

Dust, the wide world's king.

Where are now the glorious hours
Of a nation's gather'd powers?
Like the setting of a star,

In the fathomless afar;

Time's eternal wing

Hath around those ruins cast
The dark presence of the past.

Mind, what art thou? dost thou not
Hold the vast earth for thy lot?
In thy toil, how glorious!
What dost thou achieve for us,
Over all victorious!

Godlike thou dost seem.

THE PIRATE'S SONG.

To the mast nail our flag, it is dark as the grave, Or the death which it bears while it sweeps o'er the wave.

Let our deck clear for action, our guns be prepared;

Be the boarding-axe sharpen'd, the cimetar bared;
Set the canisters ready, and then bring to me,
For the last of my duties, the powder-room key.
It shall never be lower'd, the black flag we bear;
If the sea be denied us, we sweep through the air.

Unshared have we left our last victory's prey; It is mine to divide it, and yours to obey:

There are shawls that might suit a sultana's white | Be the chain and the bar from yon prison removed,

neck,

And pearls that are fair as the arms they will deck; There are flasks which, unseal them, the air will

disclose

Diametta's fair summers, the home of the rose. I claim not a portion: I ask but as mine, "Tis to drink to our victory-one cup of red wine.

Some fight, 'tis for riches; some fight, 'tis for fame:

The first I despise, and the last is a name.
I fight, 'tis for vengeance. I love to see flow,
At the stroke of my sabre, the life of my foe.
I strike for the memory of long vanish'd years;
I only shed blood, where another sheds tears.
I come, as the lightning comes red from above,
O'er the race that I loathe, to the battle I love.

THE CHURCH AT POLIGNAC.

KNEEL down in yon chapel, but only one prayer Should awaken the echoes its tall arches bear; Pale mother, pray not for the child on the bed, For the sake of the prisoner let matins be said; Old man, though the shade of thy gravestone be nigh,

Yet not for thyself raise thy voice to the sky; Young maiden there kneeling, with blush and with tear,

Name not the one name to thy spirit most dear.
The prayer for another, to Heaven addrest,
Comes back to the breather thrice blessing and
blest.

Beside the damp marsh, rising sickly and cold, Stand the bleak and stern walls of the dark prison hold;

There fallen and friendless, forlorn and opprest,
Are they once the flatter'd, obey'd, and carest.
From the blessings that God gives the poorest
exiled,

His wife is a widow, an orphan his child;
For years there the prisoner has wearily pined,
Apart from his country, apart from his kind;
Amid millions of freemen, one last lonely slave,
He knoweth the gloom, not the peace of the grave.
I plead not their errors, my heart's in the cause,
Which bows down the sword with the strength of
the laws;

But France, while within her such memories live,
With her triumphs around, can afford to forgive.
Let freedom, while raising her glorious brow,
Shake the tears from her laurels that darken there

now,

Give the children their parent, the wife her beloved.
By the heart of the many is pardon assign'd,
For, Mercy, thy cause is the cause of mankind.

THE KNIGHT OF MALTA.

THE Vessel swept in with the light of the morn, High on the red air its gonfalon borne ; The roofs of the dwellings, the sails of the mast Mix'd in the crimson the daybreak had cast.

On came the vessel :-the sword in his hand, At once from the deck leapt a stranger to land. A moment he stood, with the wind in his hair, The sunshine less golden-the silk was less fair.

He look'd o'er the waters-what look'd he to see!

What alone in the depths of his own heart could

be.

The oak on its hills, and the deer on its plain. He saw an old castle arise from the main,

He saw it no longer; the vision is fled; Paler the prest lip, and firmer the tread. He takes from his neck a light scarf that he

wore;

'Tis flung on the waters, that bare it from shore.

"Twas the gift of a false one;-and with it he

flung

All the hopes and the fancies that round it had clung.

The shrine has his vow-the Cross has his brand;

He weareth no gift of a woman's white hand.

A seal on his lip, and an oath at his heart, His future a warfare-he knoweth his part. The visions that haunted his boyhood are o'er, The young knight of Malta can dream them no

more.

DERWENT WATER.

I KNEW her though she used to make
Her dwelling by that lonely lake.
A little while she came to show
How lovely distant flowers can go.
The influence of that fairy scene
Made beautiful her face and mien.
I have seen faces far more fair,

But none that had such meaning there.

For to her downcast eyes were given
The azure of an April heaven;

The softening of those sunny hours,
By passing shadows, and by showers.

O'er her cheek the wandering red,
By the first wild rose was shed.
Evanescent, pure, and clear,
Just the warm heart's atmosphere.
Like the sweet and inner world,
In that early rosebud furled.
All whose rich revealings glow
Round the lovelier world below.
Light her step was, and her voice
Said unto the air, rejoice;
And her light laugh's silvery breaking
Sounded like the lark's first waking.

Return to that fair lake, return,

On whose green heathlands grows the fern;
And mountain heights of dark gray stone,
Are bright with lichens overgrown.
Thou art too fay-like and too fair
For our more common clouded air.
Beauty such as thine belongs
To a world of dreams and songs;
Let thy image with us dwell,
Lending music to farewell.

THE SPANISH PAGE.

OR, THE CITY'S RANSOM.

Fierce, is the Christian reader, a young and orphan lord,

For all the nobles of his house fell by the Moorish sword;

Himself was once a captive, till redeem'd by Spanish gold,

Now to be paid by Moorish wealth and life an hundred-fold.

The sound of war and weeping reach'd where a maiden lay,

Fading as fades the loveliest, too soon from earth

away,

Dark fell the silken curtains, and still the court

below,

But the maiden's dream of childhood was disturb'd by wail and wo.

She question'd of the tumult; her pale slaves told the cause;

The colour mounted to her cheek, a hasty breath she draws;

She call'd her friends around her, she whisper'd

soft and low,

Like music from a wind-touch'd lute her languid accents flow.

Again upon her crimson couch she laid her weary head;

They look'd upon the dark-eyed maid—they look'd upon the dead.

That evening, ere the sunset grew red above the

town,

A funeral train upon the hills came winding slowly

down;

They come with mournful chanting, they bear the dead along,

SHE was a chieftain's daughter, and he a captive The sentinels stood still to hear that melancholy boy,

song:

Yet playmates and companions they shared each To Don Henrique they bore the corpse-they laid it at his feet,

childish joy;

Their dark hair often mingled, they wander'd hand Pale grew the youthful warrior that pale face to in hand,

But at last the golden ransom restored him to his
land.

A lovely town is Seville amid the summer air,
But, though it be a little town Xenilla is as fair;
Fair are the glittering minarets where the purple
daylight falls,

And rosy the pomegranates of the gardens in its
walls.

meet.

As if in quiet slumber the Moorish maid was laid,

And her white hands were folded, as if in death she pray'd;

Her long black hair on either side was parted on her brow,

And her cold cheek was colder than marble or than snow.

rior's s gaze,

But its pleasant days are over, for an army girds it Yet lovelier than a living thing she met the warround, With the banner of the red cross, and the Chris- Around her was the memory of many happy days.

tian trumpet's sound;

They have sworn to raze the city that in the sun- He knew his young companion, though long dark shine stood, years had flown,

And its silvery singing fountains shall flow with Well had she kept her childish faith-she was in death his own.

Moslem blood.

"Bring ye this here, a ransom for those devoted walls!"

None answer'd-but around the tent a deeper silence falls;

None knew the maiden's meaning, save he who bent above,

Ah! only love can read within the hidden heart of love.

There came from these white silent lips more eloquence than breath,

The tenderness of childhood-the sanctity of death.

He felt their old familiar love had ties he could not break,

The warrior spared the Moorish town, for that dead maiden's sake.

The bells are ringing gayly,
And their music gladdens all,
From the towers in the sunshine,
To the date and orange stall.

Gay voices are around me,
I seem to gladden too;
And a thousand changing objects
Win my wandering eyes anew.

It is pleasant through the city
In a sunny day to roam;

And yet my full heart turns to thee,
My own, my greenwood home.

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