Up rose the glorious rank,

To Greece one cup pour'd highThen, hand in hand they drank "To immortality!"

Fear on King Xerxes fell,

When, like spirits from the tomb,
With shout and trumpet knell,
He saw the warriors come.

But down swept all his power,
With chariot and with charge;
Down pour'd the arrowy show'r,
Till sank the Dorian's targe.

They gather'd round the tent,
With all their strength unstrung;
To Greece one look they sent,

Then on high their torches flung.

Their king sat on the throne,
His captains by his side,
While the flame rush'd roaring on,
And their Pæan loud replied;

Thus fought the Greek of old!
Thus will he fight again!
Shall not the self-same mould

Bring forth the self-same men?

ONE MOMENT MORE.

We are pleased with the following lines, but we should fear to recommend them to imitation. The warrior seems to have no great delicacy of feeling in declaring his passion so abruptly to his companion; and we feel disappointed by the poet totally concealing from us the tender scene that is supposed to have taken place between the lovers. We are only told abruptly, and rather unceremoniously, that "the struggle's past." In this there is a want of tenderness.-ED.

One moment more, ere fast and far,
The battle-field I press;

That past, I grasp my cymetar,

And glory's form caress.

Those bright blue eyes,-how tearful now
That face,-ah! pale indeed ;-

To clasp that hand, to kiss that brow,-
One moment rein thy steed!

And then, 'midst other scenes,-with thee,

I'll drown this bitter agony.

Thou wilt not chide, for thou hast known,

What 'tis such joy to hold!

One moment then, few may be flown

Ere we in death lie cold!

The struggle's past !-Her golden hair
Waves on my helmet's crest;
Her angel face, all pictur'd fair,
Sleeps on a soldier's breast:
And to this faithful heart I strain
The form I ne'er may clasp again.

Now follow to that charging shout,
'Midst Honour's eager train ;
There will be conquest, or be rout,
When next it sounds again.
For bridal crown, or burial wreath,
Her faith is pledg'd to me;—
On, then, to glory or to death,
A grave or victory!

Then, as my heart, be firm my brand

For Mary and my native land!

S.

New European Magazine.

THE RECLUSE.

We are not ourselves much disposed for the enjoyment of solitary pleasures, if pleasures we may call those modes of feeling in which others delight, but which we are incapable of feeling ourselves, and which, consequently, with regard to us, have no existence. We should wish, however, to possess a por tion of the piety which the Recluse breathes in the following lines, and "that first led to the vows which" he "made;" and no doubt some of our contemporaries would be gainers by it also.-Ed.

"Twas not the wild fancy of youth's giddy day,
Nor the pangs of fond hope once betray'd,
Nor the frenzy of zealots, which oft leads astray,
That first led to the vows which I've made.

Oh, no! 'twas the choice, the fond choice of my heart, In those cloisters to fix my abode,

Where my soul may her transports of feeling impart, Link'd in love (yet in fear) with her God.

At midnight's still hour, when all nature's at rest,
When all motion, all life, make a pause,

Save night's silver queen, who, from east to the west,
In her course still proclaims a first cause.

Ah! then while the moon's sober beams chace the gloom,

From my cell, be my heart not less pure,

Till my soul, wing'd with hopes of choice blessings to

come,

Takes her flight, no more ills to endure.

European Magazine.

VERSES

ON THE DEATH OF BLOOMFIELD, THE SUFFOLK POET.

BY BERNARD BARTON.

We were never admirers of Bloomfield's poetry. Simplicity seems to be its only virtue, but what is simplicity, in the absence of that fire and imagination without which there can be no genuine, poetic enthusiasm, no poetry that either Gods or men can tolerate.

Mediocribus esse poetis,

Non Dii, non homines, non concessere columnæ.

The following, however, is a beautiful tribute to his memory, admitting him to possess all the merit which Mr. Barton attributes to him.-ED.

THOU shouldst not to the grave descend
Unmourn'd, unhonour'd, or unsung;
Could harp of mine record thy end,
For thee that rude harp should be strung,-
And plaintive sounds as ever rung
Should all its simple notes employ,

Lamenting unto old and young,

The Bard who sang THE FARMER's Boy.
Could Eastern Anglia boast a lyre

Like that which gave thee modest fame,
How justly might its every wire

Thy minstrel honours loud proclaim: And many a stream of humble name, And village-green, and common wildShould witness tears that knew not shame,

By Nature won for Nature's child.

The merry HORKEY's passing cup

Should pause-when that sad note was heard The WIDOW turn HER HOUR-GLASS up, With tenderest feelings newly stirr'd; And many a pity- waken'd word, And sighs that speak when language fails, Should prove thy simple strains preferr'd To prouder Poet's lofty tales.

Circling the OLD oak table round,

Whose moral worth thy measure owns,
Heroes and heroines yet are found

Like ABNER AND THE WIDOW JONES;
There GILBERT MELDRUM's sterner tones

In Virtue's cause are bold and free;
And e'en the patient suff'rer's moans,
In pain and sorrow-plead for thee.