"LALLA ROOKH," A POEM, BY T. MOORE, ESQ.
DOWNWARD the Peri turns her gaze,
And through the war-field's bloody haze,
Beholds a youthful warrior stand,

Alone, beside his native river,
The red blade broken in his hand,
And the last arrow in his quiver.
"Live," said the conqueror," live to share,
The trophies and the crowns I bear!"
Silent that youthful warrior stood-
Silent he pointed to the flood,

All crimson with his country's blood,
Then sent his last remaining dart,
For answer, to the invader's heart.

False flew the shaft, though pointed well

The tyrant lived, the hero fell!

Yet marked the PERI where he lay,

And when the rush of war was past,

Swiftly descending on a ray

Of morning light, she caught the lastLast glorious drop his heart had shed,

Before its free-born spirit fled!

"Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight,

"My welcome gift at the gates of light.

"Though foul are the drops that oft distil

"On the field of warfare, blood like this,
"For liberty shed, so holy is,

"It would not stain the purest rill,

"That sparkles among the bowers of bliss. "Oh! if there be, on this earthly sphere, "A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear, " "Tis the last libation Liberty draws,

"From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause."

Paradise and the Peri,

€ C 2

TO ZULIEKA,

ON RECEIVING A LOCK OF HER HAIR.

THIS little ringlet from thy brow

Unto my heart I press,

And fancy, it would weed it now

Of half its bitterness;

But, oh! instead of that bright hair,

Would that thine own young heart were there;
Then woe indeed were less!

Then lighter hours might be my share,
Than those I now am doomed to bear.

How many thoughts of me have dwelt
Where that fair ringlet lay,
That now, alas! unheeded melt
Like summer dews away!
My hope in thee is forfeited,

And 'tis in vain thy heart hath bled,
When mine hath gone astray!

Alas! what bitter lot was ours;

We grasped the thorns, but missed the flowers.

I'll prize that ringlet; for it came

To bid me think of thee;

And give thee mine, with hope the same,
That thou wilt think of me:

And yet I deem that neither need

Such thing, remembrance fond to plead;
But, still 'tis sweet to see

In lonely hour some pledge, to bear
Memory of those who are not there.

That lock, torn from its kind, ere long
Will fade perchance, and thou
Forget to whom it did belong!

Though like the raven's now,
Its hue will fade, and I shall fade;
But wilt thou think of me, young maid,
When I to death shall bow?

Methinks thine eye hath given a tear,
To things thy heart hath held less dear.

Then place it near thy gentle heart,
And it will keep it mine;
Till, throwing off its grosser part,
Again it throbs with thine."
Since in this world it is not given
To form unto ourselves a heaven,
Above we may entwine

The wreath of peace, so blighted here,
More blessed---but où! not more sincere.
Farewell! thou unsuspecting one;
A long farewell to thee!
Oh! would I unto thee had done,
As thou hast done to me.

Theu blighted hope had not been mine:
But yet my heart would not repine,
Did peace abide with thee:

Oh! may it come and bless thy soul
When many waters round me roil.

MANFREDI..

ON THE

DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE, In imitation of Cowper's Dirge on the loss of the Royal George. (Adapted to the March in Scipio.)

The queen of Isles-the mistress of the main.

Wail for the dead!

And rend thy streaming hair,

Thou fairest Island-Queen

That ever ocean bare!

All lonely on the rock,
To every passing sail,
Let thy deep shriek of woe
Fly pinioned on the gale.

Not light that tale of woe is,
No trouble of a day;
Thy cup of joy is dashed,
I's dashed in haste away.

THOMSON.

Wail for the dead!

The high-born and the good!
Long years must pass before
Her equal shall be viewed,

The wretched blessed her eye
So prompt to pity pain;
'The needy blessed her bounty,
That ne'er was sought in vain.

Three kingdoms longed to trust
The sceptre in her hand,
And send it down her race,

While their white cliffs should stand.

Each heart on tip-toe stood,

To hail a new-born son,
And merry bells were ready,
To make the welcome known.

Wail for the dead!

The babe lies cold in death! Mother and offspring need

But one sad funeral wreath.

The squire's impatient foot,
Was on the stirrup laid;
His palfrey champed the bit,
And wondered why he stayed.

When lo! through Claremont's halls
Dire words of sorrow fly:

They tell that England's Princess
Has breathed her parting sigh..

Wail for the dead!

Queen of the sea-girt isle!

For darkly trails the pall

In Windsor's hallowed pile.

Stars sunk in ocean blue

'Merge from the eastern main; But England's star of glory Shall never rise again.

CLIO.

THE CITY MAGPIE, A FABLE;

Addressed to a Gentleman who had made professions of Love to several ladies, and after gaining their affections, deserted them.

Esop, La Fontaine, Moore, and Gay,
(Authors all noted in their day,)

Believed, though birds and beasts confide
In instinct only as their guide,
Their actions well observed might give
Mankind instruction how to live,
And therefore many a fable penn'd,
With useful moral at the end.

Now, since with despicable pride,
You woo the fair but to deride,
And pique yourself upon the art
Of winning any woman's heart,
For your instruction, if I'm able,
I'll write a short appropriate fable.
A pie, who from his earliest days
Had dwelt with men, and learnt their ways,
And this distinction too could boast,

The favourite of a city toast,

One day escaped his cage, and then

Fled to his native woods again.

This Pie, (like some young men I know,)

Delighted to be thought a beau,

And practised all his city arts

To captivate the ladies' hearts.

"Madam!" he'd cry, "you're wonderous fair,

Oh what a charming shape and air!

The little loves sport in your eyes,,

And he who but beholds

dies."
you,
"La, Mr. Pie! hear how you chatter,
I'm very sure you only flatter."
"Flattery, my dear! I scorn the art,
And speak the language of the heart."
With such deceitful tales as these,
Each speckled fair he strove to please,
And when with all a lover's art
At length he'd won the lady's heart;
Conducted her to ball and play,

And friends had named their wedding-day;