The gathered darkness of her raven hair,
And bared her marble brow, as she would turn
An unchecked gaze on heaven;-back they flowed,
And, as beneath a mantle did she move
Within their shadow, while the murmuring wind
Bearing them like a banner, with low wail,
Passed through those long black locks. Her cheek was
And, as the day break fell upon her face,
It grew still paler. One whom godless spells
Had summoned from the silence of the grave,
Would wear such fixed ghostliness of look-
And, in her eyes, unearthly light'ning dwelt,
As they caught from the stars, with which she held
Communion strange, a portion of their fire.
Her form was wan and wasted, as the soul
Had worn its fragile dwelling; when she raised
Her white arms, they were like the snowy cloud,
That, half dissolved, hangs on a moonlight sky.
She stood and watched the morning; the first blush
Of young Aurora was upon the east ;
But, when the chariot of the sun-god caught,
Invisible glory, from its cloudy hall,
A breath of fragrance floated on the air;
The laurels trembled, though the wind was hushed,
And sounds, faint, but most musical, swept past.
She felt the influence on her, and her cheek
Grew red with strong emotion; wilder light
Flashed from her eyes; and, with still haughtier step,
She prest the ground, and flung her arms on high.
Bright visions were before her, and the page
Of dim futurity was opened, and
Years yet to be, were pictured on her soul
In all their varied characters of fate.
She told of glorious things, of victories,
Of crowns, of wealth; and then came deeper tones
Of human miseries, battles, famine, death.
Constable's Edinburgh Magazine.
HAIL, and farewell, thou lovely guest! I may not woo thy stay,
The hues that paint thy glowing vest
Are fading fast away,
Like the retiring tints that die
At evening on the western sky,
And melt in misty gray.
It was but now thy radiant smile
Broke through the season's gloom,
As bending I inhaled awhile
Thy breathing of perfume,
And traced on every silken leaf
A tale of summer, sweet and brief,
And sudden as thy doom.
The morning sun thy petals hailed
New from their mossy cell;
At eve his beam, in sorrow veiled,
Bade thee a last farewell;
To-morrow's ray shall mark the spot
Where, loosened from their fairy knot,
Thy withering beauties fell.
Alas! on thy forsaken stem
My heart shall long recline,
And mourn the transitory gem,
And make the story mine!
So on my joyless winter hour
Has oped some fair and fragrant flower With smile as soft as thine.
Like thee the vision came, and went,
Like thee it bloomed and fell,
In momentary pity sent
Of fairer climes to tell;
So frail its form, so short its stay,
That nought the lingering heart could say,
But, hail, and fare thee well!
Constable's Edinburgh Magazine.
THE DRINKING SONG OF MUNICH.
WRITTEN IN GERMANY, IN 1800.
SWEET Iser, were thy sunny realm
And flowery gardens mine,
Thy waters I would shade with elm
To prop the tender vine;
My golden flagons I would fill
With rosy draughts from every hill;
And, under every myrtle bower,
My gay companions should prolong
The laugh, the revel, and the song,
To many an idle hour.
Like rivers crimsoned with the beam
Of yonder planet bright,
Our balmy cups should ever stream
Profusion of delight!
No care should touch the mellow heart,
And sad or sober none depart;
For wine can triumph over wo;
And Love and Bacchus (brother powers)
Should build in Iser's sunny bowers,
[This little poem has been given to the Editor as an early and unpublished effusion of a celebrated and virtuous living Poet.]
WRITTEN BENEATH THE HEAD OF TYRTEUS.
GLORIOUS Bard! whose Lyre was heard
Amid the armed ring,
As victory were upon each word
And death on every string!
Glorious Bard! to whom belong
Wreaths not often claimed by song,-
Those hung round the warrior's shield-
Laurels from the blood-red field.
The soldier cowered beneath his tent,
His sword all rust, his bow unbent;
His comrades, who had dared to die,
Unburied on the plain,
And, jeered by mocking foemen nigh,
He dared not taunt again.
The Bard took up his burning song;
Each heart beat high, each arm grew strong:
He told them of the curse and shame
That darken round the coward's name;
Told how the mother's cheek would burn
To hear her son had fled,
How the young maiden's smile would turn
To tears, should it be said,—
'The war strength of thy lover's brand
Is weaker than thine own fair hand ;'
And proudly rung his harp while telling
The fallen warrior's fame,
When trumpet, shout and song are swelling
All glorious with his name.
It was enough.-Each sword was out,
The mountains trembled in the shout
Of men prepared like men to die
For Sparta and for victory!
Literary Gazette.
UPON the hill the Prophet stood;
King Balak in the rocky vale,
Around him, like a fiery flood,
Flashed to the Sun his men of mail.
'Twas Morn ;-'twas Noon ;-the sacrifice
Still rolled its sheeted flame to Heaven;
Still on the prophet turned their eyes,
Nor yet the fearful' CURSE' was given.
'Twas Eve ;-the flame was feeble now,
Dried was the victim's purple blood;
The Sun was rushing broad and low
Upon the murmuring multitude.
'Now Curse, or die'—The gathering roar
Around him, like a tempest, came;
Again the altar streamed with gore;
And blushed again the sky with flame.
The Prophet was in prayer; he rose,
His mantle from his face he flung;
He listened, where the mighty foes
To Heaven their evening anthem sung.
He saw their camp, like endless clouds,
Mixed with the horizon's distant blue;
Saw on the plain their marshalled crowds;
Heard the high strain their trumpets blew.
A sudden spirit on him came,
A sudden fire was in his eye;
His tongue was touched with hallowed flame, The Curser' swelled with prophecy.
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