He could not strike such beauty with his dart,
And therefore, in his lenity, he stole

Our angel from us-and she felt no smart ;
But, like a fountain dried in summer's heat,
So ebb'd the purple stream of her pure heart,
And so the playful pulse forgot to beat.
Her words were for our comfort; but the more
She would have wooed us from our heavy sorrow,
The more we griev'd; and we were fain to borrow
A hope upon her smile, and would implore
Heaven's mercy, that she yet might see the morrow.
Oh God! thy holy will was otherwise.

One arm unto her mother she did reach,
And one to me—she gave a hand to each;
And, casting on us her alternate eyes,
And then to Heaven, and then a moment hid
Their fainting lustre 'neath the trembling lid—
Oh, what an anxious moment! when she press'd,
And grasp'd my hand, then, for a little while,
Look'd on her parent with a placid smile,
And then on me, and with a sigh did rest
Her head upon the cushion. She had prov'd
The hope I cherish'd, and 'twas me she lov'd!
And so my trembling hand her palm did hold,
Till she herself the union should dissever;
I could have paused in that embrace for ever,
But, oh! within that grasp, that loving fold,
Her pulse was lost-and she was dead-and cold!

I saw her laid within her narrow grave;
I heard the tolling of the village bell,
Whose iron tongue, as it proclaim'd her knell,
Smote to my heart, and such an anguish gave,
As I can never bear to hear it tell

Even the sweet hour of prayer. I saw the spade
With which the sexton her lone dwelling made,,
Heap the last turf upon her coffin'd clay :
And I did linger for a time behind,

Until the common mourners pass'd away,

And then I mourn'd alone, and lowly knelt,

And commun'd with her; for I deem'd I felt

Her hand still clasp'd in mine. They say my mind Was in the mood of frenzy, and that oft

Mine eyes were fix'd upon the listless wall,

And that I would her name with fondness call,
And whisper syllables unknown and soft,
As if we were together. This I know
That I did often hurry to her tomb;
And, as the lilies, which I taught to grow,
As emblems of her purity and doom,

Wept a pure dew-drop from their snowy bloom,
I wept beside them, while I did unfold

The story of my grief to her dead ear:
I was the living epitaph, that told
Her virtues to the wind, that idly roll'd
Mine offering to the waste, and none did hear
You deem it silly trade ;-but have you lov'd?
And is the maiden of your bosom dead?
And lies your heart within her silent bed?
And has your fancy in delirium rov'd

To seek that which you cannot find on earth?
If so, you will not cast away your mirth
On me, a fellow-sufferer.-It may be
That I shall quickly gain my heavenly birth,
And view the things which mortals cannot see,
Thy mansion, Emily,-thy God,-and thee!

THE TOMBS OF PLATEA.

From a Painting by Mr Williams.

AND there they sleep!-the men who stood
In arms before th' exulting sun,

And bath'd their spears in Persian blood,

And taught the earth how Freedom might be won.

They sleep!-th' Olympic wreaths are dead;
Th' Athenian lyres are hush'd and gone;

The Dorian voice of song is fled

Slumber, ye mighty! slumber deeply on!

They sleep!-and seems not all around
As hallow'd unto Glory's tomb ?

Silence is on the battle-ground,

The heavens are loaded with a breathless gloom.

And stars are watching on their height,

But dimly seen through mist and cloud,

And still and solemn is the light

Which folds the plain, as with a glimmering shroud.

And thou, pale Night-Queen! here thy beams
Are not as those the shepherd loves,

Nor look they down on shining streams,
By Naiads haunted, in the laurel-groves;

Thou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep,
In shadowy quiet, midst its lines;
No temple gleaming on the steep,

Through the grey olives or the mountain-pines;

But o'er a dim and boundless waste,
Thy rays, e'en like a tomb-lamp's, brood,
When man's departed steps are traced,
But by his dust, amidst the solitude.

And be it thus!-What slave shall tread
Oe'r Freedom's ancient battle-plains?

Let deserts wrap the glorious dead,

When their bright land sits weeping o'er her chains.

Here, where the Persian clarion rung,

And where the Spartan sword flash'd high,
And where the Pæan strains were sung

By those who crown'd the Bowl of Liberty *;

Here should no voice, no sound be heard,
Until the bonds of Greece be riven,

Save of the leader's charging word,

Or the shrill trumpet pealing up through heaven!

Rest in your silent homes, ye brave!
No vines festoon your lonely tree † ;
No harvests o'er your war-field wave,

Till rushing winds proclaim the land is free!

ON THE VIEW OF DELPHI.

By the same Artist.

THERE have been bright and glorious pageants here,
Where now grey stones and moss-grown columns lie;
There have been words, which earth grew pale to hear,
Breath'd from the cavern's misty chambers nigh:
There have been voices, through the sunny sky,
And the pine-woods, their choral hymn-notes sending;
And reeds and lyres, their Dorian melody,

• The Bowl of Liberty, an allusion to the ceremonies with which the anniversary of the bat

tle of Platma was anciently celebrated.

A single tree appears in Mr Williams' impressive picture.

With incense-clouds around the Temple blending,
And throngs, with laurel boughs, before the Altar bending.

There have been treasures of the seas and isles
Brought to the Day-god's now forsaken throne;
Thunders have peal'd along the rock-defiles
When the far-echoing battle-horn made known
That foes were on their way! The deep wind's moan
Hath chill'd the invader's heart with secret fear,
And from the sybil-grottoes, wild and lone,

Storms have gone forth, which, in their fierce career,
From his bold hand have struck the banner and the spear.

The shrine hath sunk!-But thou unchanged art there
Mount of the voice and vision! robed with dreams!
Unchanged, and rushing through the radiant air,
With thy dark-waving pines, and sparkling streams,
And all thy founts of song!—their bright course teems
With inspiration yet; and each dim haze

Or golden cloud, which floats around thee, seems
As with its mantle veiling from our gaze

The mysteries of the past, the gods of elder days.

Away, vain phantasies! doth less of power
Dwell round thy summit, or thy cliffs invest,
Though in deep stillness now the ruin's flower
Waves o'er the mouldering pillars on thy breast?

Lift through the free blue heavens thine arrowy crest!
Let the great rocks their solitude regain!

No Delphian lyres now break thy noontide rest

With their full chords :-but silent be the strain!

Thou hast a mightier voice to speak the Eternal's reign!

THE AERONAUT.

He who hath sail'd upon the pathless seas,
As fleet and free as sweeps the wandering breeze,
Knows how the soul expands as we survey
The shoreless waste-the dread unmeasur'd way;
But who shall paint th' exulting thoughts and high,
Of him who soars into the vaulted sky-

Who to the thunder's secret place doth sail,
Rides on the cloud, and travels on the gale-
And holds through homeless wilds of space his way,
Free as a spirit loosen'd from its clay?

'Twas so from earth I bounded, midst the roar
Of crowds who cheer'd my launching from the shore
Of this fair world, but as they wav'd farewell,
The last faint sounds came o'er me like a knell ;
As slow they died upon the distant ear,

Dim wax'd the world-the darksome cloud was near:
Still shooting upward to a fearful height,
Far, far beneath I marked the eagle's flight;
But higher rising on the freshening breeze,
The clouds beneath me roll'd like sombre seas.
On, on I sped upon my course sublime,
Nor for a moment thought of Earth or Time;
Till Night's dull curtain o'er the heavens was hung,
And through the skies the hollow tempest sung.
Then down the black profound I speeded fast,
To gain the earth-but, ah! the hour was past!
Low as I sank, I heard the billows roll,
The roar of waters smote my shuddering soul:
All faint with terror, I began to feel

My heart grow sick-my troubled brain to reel;
Yet in that hour the sense was left me still
To hurl each weight from out my vehicle,
Which vaulted upwards from th' abyss once more,
Though not so high but I could hear its roar,-
Wild as the hungry howl, the cry for blood
That wakes each night the desart solitude.

Careering still upon the tempest dire,

I flew through darkness, thunder-cloud, and fire;
The lightnings blaz'd around my lonely head,
While startled Night in sullen darkness fled;
And to myself I seem'd like phantom thing,
Sweeping away upon the whirlwind's wing;
Like spirit of the gloom, whose flying form
Adds tenfold terror to the ruthless storm.

At last upon the ocean, faint and far,

A lone light glimmer'd like a setting star.-
Oh! how I gaz'd upon the distant bark,

Whose ray had made my night so doubly dark;
Which show'd a place of safety on the main,
But also show'd-for me 'twas there in vain!
On, on I flew before the sweeping blast,
And soon the solitary light I past;
Far to the windward set the ocean beam,
But straight before another shed its gleam!
Right on I sped, and as I near'd the light,
Down to the yawning floods I urged my flight,
And slowly fell beneath the vessel's lea,

Where round her bulwarks rav'd the frenzied sea.
VOL. XV. PART I.

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