BELSHAZZAR. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. HOUR of an Empire's overthrow! 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, That never filled its bed before; 'Behold a tide of Persian steel! A torrent of the Median car; Like flame their gory banners wheel; Belshazzar gazed; the voice was past— The rushing of a mighty plume. He listened; all again was still; The breeze that through the roses sang. 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 ! The faded leaf, the withered heart! 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!— They rush, they bound, they howl, the men of sin ;— Still stooped the cloud, still burst the thicker blaze; The earthquake heaved! Then sank the hideous din !— Yon wave of darkness o'er their ashes strays. 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, 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. STANZAS, WRITTEN ON THE BACK OF A LETTER. BY ISMAEL FITZADAM. BLEST be the page affection traced! And blest the spirit, breathing love, Sweet messenger!-Thou com'st to bless- No, not alone, nor wholly lost, While love's fond sympathy can save; Still fond, but in misfortune most, God! is not this the very hand, When stretched on sickness' rack I lay, That ministered the cooling cup To my parched lip ?—No cup of glee, Or, wet with tears, was lifted up To Heaven, in fervent prayer for me? Yes, sister of my soul! the part Was thine long months to watch and weep |