As hope's fair herald-in thy pride
The sylph-like genius of the scene,
But, sunk in dark oblivion's tide,

Shalt be-as thou hadst never been !

While Man's immortal part, when Time
Shall set the chainless spirit free,
May seek a brighter, happier clime
Than Fancy e'er could frame for thee:
Though bright her fairy bowers may be,
Yet brief as bright their beauties fade,
And sad Experience mourns to see
Each gourd Hope trusted in-decay'd.

CASA BIANCA.

The Son of the Admiral of the Orient, who perished when that ship blew up in the battle of the Nile.

MRS. HEMANS.

THE boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but him had fled;

The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though child-like form.

The flames roll'd on-he would not go
Without his father's word ;

That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud :-"Say, Father, say,
If yet my task is done?"

He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father," once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!

And "--but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in his waving hair,

And looked from that lone post of death

In still, but brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,

"My father! must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapp'd the ship in splendour wild,

They caught the flag on high,

And streamed above the gallant child,

Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound-
The boy-oh! where was he?

Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea!

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part-
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young faithful heart!

DEATH.

BYRON.

HE who hath bent him o'er the dead,
Ere the first day of death is fled;
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress;
(Before Decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the line where beauty lingers,)
And mark'd the mild angelic air-
The rapture of repose that's there :-
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the pallid cheek,
And but for that sad shrouded eye,

That fires not-wins not-weeps not-now,
And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Whose touch thrills with mortality,

And curdles to the gazer's heart,
As if to him it would impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ;-
Yes, but for these, and these alone,
Some moments-ay-one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power,
So fair-so calm-so softly seal'd
The first-last look-by death reveal'd!

THE SWORD.

L. E. LANDON.

'Twas the battle-field, and the cold pale moon Look'd down on the dead and dying,

And the wind pass'd o'er, with a dirge and a wail, Where the young and the brave were lying.

With his father's sword in his red right hand,
And the hostile dead around him,

Lay a youthful chief; but his bed was the ground,
And the grave's icy sleep had bound him.

A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom,
Pass'd a soldier, his plunder seeking;
Careless he stepp'd where friend and foe
Lay alike in their life-blood reeking.

Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword,
The soldier paused beside it;

He wrench'd the hand with a giant's strength,
But the grasp of the dead defied it.

He loosed his hold, and his English heart
Took part with the dead before him,

And he honour'd the brave who died sword in hand,
As with soften'd brow he leant o'er him.

"A soldier's death thou hast boldly died, A soldier's grave won by it;

Before I would take that sword from thy hand, My own life's blood should dye it.

"Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow, Or the wolf to batten o'er thee;

Or the coward insult the gallant dead,
Who in life had trembled before thee."

Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth
Where his warrior foe was sleeping;
And he laid him there in honour and rest,
With his sword in his own brave keeping.

A CHURCHYARD SCENE.

WILSON.

How sweet and solemn, all alone,
With reverent step, from stone to stone
In a small village churchyard lying,
O'er intervening flowers to move-
And as we read the names unknown,
Of young and old, to judgment gone,
And hear, in the calm air above,
Time onwards softly flying,
To meditate in Christian love,

Upon the dead and dying!

Such is the scene around me now:

A little churchyard on the brow

Of a green pastoral hill;

It sylvan village sleeps below,

And faintly, here, is heard the flow

Of Woodburn's summer rill;