Their reasoning, like the tread-mill's round, And all their steps repeated o'er Leave them-just where they were before. Life's end is seated on the nose,* When men grow thinking and suspicious; To look beyond the nose's tip; Some recommend a spiritual purging Of sin, by means of corporal scourging; Of strange opinions there's no dearth- Is to consume the night's still noon And pick up news from Saturn's ring. A feast, a mere debauch, a revel, And in hard drinking seek their level. • The Indian Fakeers sit for days with their eyes fixed on the point of their nose. L The wiser deem the task of man On earth is but himself to scan, To the great goal of knowledge press, Firmly to guard his country's laws, With them I'd laugh at all those blockheads, To hold, just what their own contain: But, since the Fates degree to twine, The sceptic sinks into the lover; A better cause why man should be, The means must sanctify the end. New Monthly Magazine. SONNET. WRITTEN ON SEEING A GREEK AT VAUXHALL. THE author of the following beautiful lines has, if we mistake not, erred, in placing the scene at Vauxhall, as the Greek could not have happened to enter the gardens by chance, and; if he went purposely, his purpose must be to enjoy, like others, the festivities of the place. How, then, could he be said to "Gaze around” him "with unquiet eye, But stamp'd a deeper sadness in" his "mind?" ED. Still he beheld nor mingled with the throng, Thy soul is o'er the waters-there is not Of pleasure's many voices, to the spot But stamp a deeper sadness in thy mind. Thou think'st of those firm hearts and trusty hands And every tranquil vale and giant height, ALFAIMA'S LAMENT.* To the lovers of romantic poetry, the following lines will be acceptable. We shall only observe, that the measure seems neither suited to the dignity of the queen, nor to the magnitude of her misfortunes.-ED. Is a dungeon fit home for a queen, Where the day-spring ne'er pours its light! In the plendour and pomp of a diadem bright— An object of pity and scorn! Beauty, royalty, innocence, now To the rage of a husband and tyrant, before Youth's time is gone by or the minutes are o'er, Ye Zegris, perfidious and base, Ye slaughter'd my friends unaware; Not enough was the blood of their race, But with them ye dared pierce with the shaft of despair, With calumny's arrow a heart that must bear To be victim, in fullness of woes, To the virtue and worth of your foes. * See the history of Boabdil, the last Moorish king of Grenada. Of a monster of jealousy; That love's flame for another I've fed; But the love of my honour is first love with me; It shall ever be kept unreveal'd. O Grenada! O my sad home! Do there none of thy warriors remain ? Not one that to save me will come And enter the list for his queen, and regain Her freedom once more? Are they all with the slain? O Muça, haste thou to my aid, Lest I perish belied and betray'd! My country, my parents, my throne, Is the morn, the sweet morn of my days, But its mantle of grandeur, its incense of praise, Polluted and darken'd as now? The wolf keeps his haunt and his lair, The eagle his mountain-nest free, The peasant his home, and in air The birds soar in sunshine and liberty- O Mahomet! weak is thy power |