BY JOHN MALCOLM, ESQ. SPIRIT of the lonely scene, On the Pyramids sublime, Towering o'er a thousand graves,— Gleaming high on Greenland's coast, Hoar Winter's diadem, List'st thou to the rending roar Or dost thou rather love to dwell Peals through Palmyra's domes? Or where majestic Babel lies Buried in oblivious gloom, Whose tower hath crumbled from the skies Into a desert tomb! From thy deep and dread repose, 'Midst primeval, starless Night, To restore thine ancient reign, Literary Souvenir. THE CYPRESS TREE. A slender tree upon a height in lonely beauty towers, I've thought of Oriental tombs, of silent cities, where And thought, beneath the evening star, how many a maiden crept I've thought, thou lonely cypress tree, thou hermit of the grove, How many a heart, alas! is doomed forlorn on earth to rove; When all that charmed the morn of life, and cheered the youthful mind, Have like the sunbeams passed away, and left but clouds behind! Thou wert a token unto me, thou stem with dreary leaf, A few short years shall swiftly glide, and then thy boughs shall wave, When tempests beat, and breezes sigh, above Blackwood's Magazine. my silent grave! A STANZAS.. BY THE LATE BISHOP HEBER. IF thou wert by my side, my love! If thou, my love, wert by my side, How gaily would our pinnace glide I miss thee at the dawning grey, I miss thee when by Gunga's stream But most beneath the lamp's pale beam, I spread my books, my pencil try, But when of morn and eve the star I feel, though thou art distant far, Then on!-then on !-where duty leads, My course be onward still, O'er broad Indostan's sultry meads, O'er bleak Almorah's hill. That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates, For sweet the bliss us both awaits, By yonder western main. Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, But ne'er were hearts so light and gay, As then shall meet in thee! DOMESTIC LOVE. DOMESTIC LOVE! not in proud palace halls Of woody hills some little bubbling spring, Shining along through banks with harebells dyed; And many a bird to warble on the wing, When Morn her saffron robe o'er heaven and earth doth fling. O, love of loves!-to thy white hand is given Of earthly happiness the golden key! AMERICA AND ENGLAND. BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON, ESQ. THOUGH ages long have past, Since our fathers left their home, Their pilot in the blast, O'er untravelled seas to roam, Yet lives the blood of England in our veins; That blood of honest fame, By its chains? While the language free and bold How the vault of Heaven rung, And from rock to rock repeat, Round our coast! While the manners, while the arts, That mould a nation's soul, Still cling around our hearts, Between, let ocean roll, Our joint communion breaking with the sun; Yet still from either beach The voice of blood shall reach,— More audible than speech, We are one! |