I see each shade, all silvery white, I hear each spirit's melting sigh; 6. But soon the last dim morn shall rise, Tell where his nameless ashes lie, Who sigh'd for gold, and found it dross. London Magazine. THE LAST MAN. WRITTEN BY T. CAMPBELL. OUR observations on the Last Man will be found in our preliminary view of Modern Literature. ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The Sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep, Adown the gulf of Time! I saw the last of human mould, That shall Creation's death behold As Adam saw her prime! The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, The Earth with age was wan, The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man! Some had expir'd in fight—the brands In plague and famine some! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; Yet prophet like, that lone one stood, Saying we are twins in death, proud Sun, For thou ten thousand, thousand years What though beneath thee man put forth Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Heal'd not a passion or a pang Entail'd on human hearts. K Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men, Nor with thy rising beams recall Its piteous pageants bring not back Like grass beneath the scythe. E'en I am weary in yon skies My lips that speak thy dirge of death- The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,— This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim Who captive led captivity, Who robb'd the grave of Victory, And took the sting from Death Go sun, while mercy holds me up On Nature's awful waste To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste- The dark'ning universe defy Or shake his trust in God! THE DAUGHTER OF MEATH. WHETHER the story of Melachlin's daughter be true or not, it is related in the History of Ireland almost literally as the poet describes it here; and it is not a little remarkable that stories founded in history, even when they are originally mere fictions of the itinerant bard, or historical Senachee, are still more interesting to all readers, than those which the poet himself immediately invents. The fact is, that we are always more willing to sympathize with real than with imaginary characters, and all historical characters, descriptions, and events, appear real to us, whether they be so or not.-ED. TURGESIUS, the chief of a turbulent band, Came over from Norway and conquer'd the land; The tumult of battle was hush'd for a while,- The sword of the conqueror slept in its sheath, - His triumphs were honour'd with trophy and wreath; The princes of Erin despair'd of relief, And knelt to the lawless Norwegian Chief. His heart knew the charm of a woman's sweet smile, Did he know with what mild, yet resistless controul, The sports of that evening seem'd languid and dim; |