Through storms of death and seas of graves
He steer'd with stedfast eye;

His path was on the desert waves,
His compass in the sky.

The youth who lifts his graceful hand,
Struck the unshapen block,

And Beauty leap'd, at his command,
A Venus from the rock.

Trembling with ecstacy of thought,

Behold the Grecian maid,

Whom love's enchanting impulse taught
To trace a slumberer's shade.

Sweet are the thefts of love;-she stole

His image while he lay,

Kindled the shadow to a soul,

And breathed that soul through clay.

Yon listening nymph, who looks behind,
With countenance of fire,

Heard midnight music in the wind,
-And framed the Æolian lyre.

All hail!-The Sire of Song appears,
The Muse's eldest born;

The sky-lark in the dawn of years,
The poet of the morn.

He from the depth of cavern'd woods,
That echoed to his voice,

Bade mountains, valleys, winds, and floods,

And earth and heaven rejoice.

Though charm'd to meekness while he sung,
The wild beasts round him ran,
This was the triumph of his tongue,~
It tamed the heart of man.

Dim through the mist of twilight times
The ghost of Cyrus walks ;

Behind him, red with glorious crimes,
The son of Ammon stalks.

Relentless Hannibal, in pride
Of sworn, fix'd hatred lowers;
Cæsar, 'tis Brutus at his side,-
In peerless grandeur towers.

With moonlight softness Helen's charms
Dissolve the spectred gloom,
The leading star of Greece in arms,
Portending Ilion's doom.

But Homer ;-see the bard arise;
And hark!—he strikes the lyre;

The Dardan warriors lift their eyes,
The Argive Chiefs respire.

And while his music rolls along,
The towers of Troy sublime,
Raised by the magic breath of song,
Mock the destroyer Time.

For still around the eternal walls
The storms of battle rage:
And Hector conquers, Hector falls,
Bewept in every age.

Genius of Homer! were it mine"

To track thy fiery car,

And in thy sunset course to shine

A radiant evening star,

What theme, what laurel might the Muse Reclaim from ages fled?

What realm-restoring hero chuse

To summon from the dead?

Yonder his shadow flits away:
-Thou shalt not thus depart;
Stay, thou transcendant spirit, stay,
And tell me who thou art!

'Tis Alfred:-In the rolls of Fame,
And on a midnight page,
Blazes his broad refulgent name,
The watch-light of his age.

K

A Danish winter, from the north,
Howl'd o'er the British wild,

But Alfred, like the spring, brake forth,
And all the desert smiled.

Back to the deep he roll'd the waves,

By mad invasion hurl'd;

His voice was liberty to slaves,

Defiance to the world.

And still that voice o'er land and sea

Shall Albion's foes appal;

The race of Alfred will be free;
Hear it, and tremble, Gaul!

But lo! the phantoms fade in flight,
Like fears that cross the mind,

Like meteors gleaming through the night,
Like thunders on the wind.

The vision of the tomb is past;
Beyond it, who can tell
In what mysterious region cast
Immortal spirits dwell?

I know not, but I soon shall know,
When life's sore conflicts cease,

When this desponding heart lies low,
And I shall rest in peace.

For see, on Death's bewildering wave,
The rainbow Hope arise,

A bridge of glory o'er the grave,
That bends beyond the skies.

From earth to heaven it swells and shines,
The pledge of bliss to man;
Time with eternity combines,

And grasps them in a span.

THE PICTURE.

Mrs. Tighe.

YES, these are the features already imprest

So deep by the pencil of Love on my heart! Within their reflection they find in this breast:

Yet something is wanting: ah! where is the art That to painting so true can that something impart?

Oh! where is the sweetness that dwells on that lip?
And where is the smile that enchanted my soul?
No sweet dew of love from these roses I sip,

Nor meet the soft glance which with magic control
O'er the chords of my heart so bewitchingly stole.

Cold, cold is that eye! unimpassioned its beams;
They speak not of tenderness, love, or delight:
Oh! where is the heart-thrilling rapture that streams
From the heavenly blue of that circle so bright,
That sunshine of pleasure which gladdened my sight?