At last a slave bethought her of a harp; The harper came, and tuned his instrument; At first the notes irregular and sharp On him her flashing eyes a moment bent; Then to the wall she turned, as if to warp, Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent, And he begun a long low island song, Of ancient days-ere tyranny grew strong. Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall In time to his old tune; he changed the theme, And sung of love the fierce name struck through all Her recollection; on her flashed the dream Of what she was, and is, if ye could call To be so being; in a gushing stream Short solace, vain relief!-thought came too quick, Yet she betrayed at times a gleam of sense; Nothing could make her meet her father's face, Though on all other things with looks intense She gazed, but none she ever could retrace; Food she refused, and raiment; no pretence Availed for either; neither change of place, Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her Senses to sleep-the power seemed gone for ever. Twelve days and nights she withered thus: at last, And they who watched her nearest could not know The very instant, till the change that cast Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, Glazed o'er her eyes-the beautiful, the blackOh! to possess such lustre-and then lack! Byron. TO A TUFT OF EARLY VIOLETS. Sweet flowers! that, from your humble beds Retire, retire! These tepid airs Are not the genial brood of May; That sun with light malignant glares, And flatters only to betray. Stern winter's reign is not yet past- And nips your root, and lays you low. Alas for such ungentle doom! But I will shield you; and supply A kindlier soil on which to bloom, A nobler bed on which to die. Come then- -ere yet the morning ray Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, And drawn balmiest sweets away your ! O come, and grace my Anna's breast. Ye droop, fond flowers! But, did ye know, For there has liberal nature joined Come then-ere yet the morning ray Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, O! I should think,-that fragrant bed By one short hour of transport there. More blest than me, thus shall ye live While I, alas! no distant date, Mix with the dust from whence I came, Without a friend to weep my fate, Without a stone to tell my name. Gifford. COMFORT UNDER AFFLICTION When gathering clouds around I view, If aught should tempt my soul to stray If wounded love my bosom swell, |