Who captive led captivity,

Who robbed the grave of Victory,
And took the sting from Death!

Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up
On Nature's awful waste,

To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall taste-
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,
On Earth's sepulchral clod;
The darkening universe defy
To quench his Immortality,
Or shake his trust in God!

New Monthly Magazine.

THE GENIUS OF SPAIN.

BY LORD HOLLAND.

Paz con Inglaterra, con todo el mundo Guerra.

On that steep ridge beyond Bayonna's bold,
Methought a giant figure did appear,

Sunburnt and rough!-He on his limbs did wear
Bright steel and raiment fairer than of old,
But yet uncouth in speech-'I nothing fear
Yon braggart threats,' quoth he in accents bold,
'Let recreant France her fine-spun plots unfold,
And come with train barbarian in her rear,
Croat or Muscovite !—My native pride
Withered such hosts, when mightier captains led:
Cæsar, Napoleon, ill with me have sped!

And shall I crouch now Freedom is my bride!

No! the young offspring of that heavenly bed,Stand England firm,-shall 'gainst the World make head.' Morning Chronicle.

A FAREWELL.

BY ISMAEL FITZADAM.

FARE thee well, land of my birth,
That spot the most sacred on earth !—
At last I have broken the spell

That bound my heart to thee,-farewell!

Away idle sorrows, that wet

My cheek with unbidden regret !—

I leave no fond sympathy here
That asks, at my parting, one tear.

With a love that scarce death could remove,
Have I clung to thee, land of my love!
Yet found but such fostering and rest
As the babe at its dead mother's breast.

Lift the sail. The lone spirit that braves
The loud going forth of the waves
Wherever they cast him, will find
A country, and bosoms, more kind.

Lift the sail-all remembrances sleep
In the rush and the roar of the deep,
As its tide blots the lines which the hand
Of childhood had etched on the sand.

Denied to my chance-kindled fire
The wreath that belongs to the lyre,
Yet my good sword the battle shall join,
And chivalry's garland be mine.

Or victory, torn from the brow

Of the Paynim, shall hallow my vow,—
Or fallen in the strife of the brave,
Young Glory shall beam on my grave!

Fare thee well, land of my birth,

The one spot most sacred of earth!—
At last I have burst through the spell

That bound my heart to thee !-Farewell!

Literary Gazette.

LINES,

WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS IN AMPTHILL PARK.

BY J. H. WIFFEN, ESQ.

Out upon time.-LORD BYRON.

BRIGHTLY the moon-beams slept amid
Chambers 'mid rifled ruin hid;

For the alder rankled at the door,

And thistles grew on the chill damp floor;
And proudly the flourishing ivy wound
Pillar and column and roof around!
The vacant and desolate windows now
Waving grass and herbage flout;

And from the night raven's sheltering bough,
At times the howling fox looks out;
And each massy court and tower sublime,

Is eat by the silent tusk of TIME!

O, how unlike their years of prime,
By chieftains visited!-OUT UPON TIME!
RUIN, and ravin, and wild decay,
Herald him on his blighting way!
Where points his finger,-lours the storm;
Where his eye fixes-feeds the worm;
Where treads his step,-there glory lies;
Where breathes his breath,-there beauty dies.
He breaks the oppressor's iron rod;

Crumbles the robes of the Priest of God;

On the palace of kings and the peasant's cot,

He turns his visage and they are not!

Even lofty song and the magic of rhyme

Yield at length to his power!-Out-out upON TIME! Leeds Intelligencer.

SPANISH ROMANCE.

Los Moros Vienen.

BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.

THERE's a sound of arrows on the air,—
A sound of the thundering atabal;

I see through the trees the banners glare,

This eve they shall hang on the christian's wall; And the haughty hands that those banners bore, This eve shall be stiff in their own dark gore.

Then leave me, sweet lady! thy starry eyes
Are made for love, and love alone;
Those glowing lips-are for passion's sighs,

That form!-for the silk and the gold of a throne.— Before the dawning sky is red,

Yon plain shall be heaped with the dying and dead.

Hark! Hark! 'Tis the christian's battle horn!
Behold the red-cross standard wave,

Like a fiery gleam in the opening morn!
The shout is 'glory or the grave!'
Unclasp my hand;-no tears-away!
The Saracen shouts his last to-day.

One kiss, sweet love ;-go pray for Spain-
Light every taper;-pray for him,

Whose soul may on that fatal plain,

But linger for thy parting hymn !— No. Be that idle thought forgiven !— We'll meet in bliss, in earth-or Heaven New Times.

THE VISION.

I CALL upon thee in the night,
When none alive are near;
I dream about thee with delight,
And then thou dost appear
Fair as the day-star o'er the hill,
When skies are blue, and all is still.

Thou stand'st before me silently,
The spectre of the past;
The trembling azure of thine eye,
Without a cloud o'ercast,

Calm as the broad and silent deep,

When winds are hushed and waves asleep.

Thou gazest on me!—But thy look

Of angel tenderness,

So pierces, that I less can brook,
Than if it spoke distress;
Or came in anguish here to me,
To tell of evil boding thee!

Around thee robes of snowy white,

With virgin taste, are thrown;

And at thy breast a lily bright,
In beauty scarcely blown;
Calmly thou gazest,-like the moon,
Upon the leafy woods of June.

It is a dream-and thou art gone,
The midnight breezes sigh;
And downcast, sorrowful, alone,
With sinking heart I lie,

To muse on days when thou to me
Wert more than all on earth can be.

O lonely is the lot of him

Whose path is on the earth,