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 I wish to love thee less-and feel 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; Thy great victories only show LORD MELBOURNE. Ir is a glorious task to guide And such a task it is to steer Such time is passing o'er our land, In the fierce contest of such hour, More glorious than the conqueror's brand, The rights they teach, the hopes they frame Do what the island of the free; 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 In the fathomless afar; Time's eternal wing Hath around those ruins cast Mind, what art thou? dost thou not 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; 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. 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. 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, His wife is a widow, an orphan his child; But France, while within her such memories live, now, Give the children their parent, the wife her beloved. 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 But none that had such meaning there. For to her downcast eyes were given The softening of those sunny hours, O'er her cheek the wandering red, Return to that fair lake, return, On whose green heathlands grows the fern; 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 A lovely town is Seville amid the summer air, And rosy the pomegranates of the gardens in its 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, Gay voices are around me, It is pleasant through the city And yet my full heart turns to thee, |