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THE wind blows chill across those gloomy waves;-
Oh! how unlike the green and dancing main!
The surge is foul as if it rolled o'er graves;-
Stranger, here lie the cities of the plain.

Yes, on that plain, by wild waves covered now,
Rose palace once, and sparkling pinnacle;
On pomp and spectacle beamed morning's glow,
On pomp and festival the twilight fell.

Lovely and splendid all,-but Sodom's soul

Was stained with blood, and pride, and perjury;
Long warned, long spared, till her whole heart was foul,
And fiery vengeance on its clouds came nigh.

And still she mocked, and danced, and, taunting, spoke
Her sportive blasphemies against the Throne :—

It came !-The thunder on her slumber broke :-
God spake the word of wrath!-Her dream was done.

Yet, in her final night, amid her stood

Immortal messengers, and pausing Heaven Pleaded with man, but she was quite imbued,

Her last hour waned she scorned to be forgiven!

"Twas done!-Down poured at once the sulphurous shower, Down stooped, in flame, the heaven's red canopy.

Oh! for the arm of God, in that fierce hour!—
'Twas vain, nor help of God or man was nigh.

They rush, they bound, they howl, the men of sin ;—
Still stooped the cloud, still burst the thicker blaze;
The earthquake heaved!--Then sank the hideous din !—
You wave of darkness o'er their ashes strays.

PARIS! thy soul is deeper dyed with blood,

And long, and blasphemous, has been thy day;
And, Paris, it were well for thee that flood,

Or fire, could cleanse thy damning stains away.
Literary Gazette.




I ARISE from dreams of thee,

In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are burning bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit, in my feet,

Hath led me,-who knows how!-
To thy chamber window, Sweet.

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream,
The Champak odours fail,

Like sweet thoughts in a dream.
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart :-
As I must on thine,

Beloved as thou art!

The gentle dews of sleep

Are falling on thine eye; And 1, alas! must weep,

Thou know'st not I am nigh!

My cheek is cold and wan,

My heart beats loud and fast ;

O! press it to thine own,
Or it will break at last!





BLEST be the page affection traced!
All welcome to the wanderer's eye,
As roses springing 'mid the waste,
As rills along the desert dry.

And blest the spirit, breathing love,
That doubly every line endears,
While pensive memory pours above
The melancholy joy of tears.

Sweet messenger!-Thou com'st to bless-
To tell one heart-a homeless one-
That, in this wide world's wilderness,
It beats not-cannot break-alone.

No, not alone, nor wholly lost,

While love's fond sympathy can save; Still fond, but in misfortune most,

And burning brightest near the grave.

God! is not this the very hand,

When stretched on sickness' rack I lay,
That wiped, as with a healing wand,
The bitter dews of pain away?

That ministered the cooling cup

To my parched lip?-No cup of glee,

Or, wet with tears, was lifted up

To Heaven, in fervent prayer for me?

Yes, sister of my soul! the part

Was thine long months to watch and weep

The anguish, whose convulsive start

Still mocked and murdered struggling sleep.

Beleagured Nature's strife to view,

And every pang so keenly share, That pity even from me was due,

Who lay the wretch of wretches there.

In that dark hour, when every tie,
When life itself was all but riven,
Thou stood'st a guardian angel by,

That loosed from earth, and led to Heaven.

Or, with unwearied labour, prest

The nerve where agonies were born,' Soothing my midnights—not of rest— Nor anxious for relief at morn.

And she-one other not less dear,
Oh! can her love forgotten be!
Who, o'er that bed-that living bier-
Shared all thy toils and tears for me.

Like chords in music's holiest mood,

Mingling, but sweeter from control,
Twin forms of mercy! there ye stood,
Breathing one fond, devoted soul!

Oh, nought of pure on earth beneath,
And scarcely aught in heaven above,

Can match the purity, the faith,
The blessing, of a sister's love!

Take thou, the fond return of mine,—
'Tis all, save verse, that's mine to give,-
Till life's last pulses cease, 'tis thine,
And life itself it must outlive.




FILL the goblet again, for I never before

Felt the glow that now gladdens my heart to its core !
Let us drink!-Who would not? Since through life's varied round
In the goblet alone no deception is found.

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply;

I have basked in the beam of a dark rolling eye;

I have loved!-Who has not?-But what tongue will declare,
That pleasure existed whilst passion was there!

In the bright days of youth-when the heart's in its spring,
And dreams that affection can never take wing,-

I had friends!-Who has not?-But what tongue will avow
That friends, rosy wine, are so faithful as thou!

The breast of a mistress some boy may estrange;

Friendship shifts with the sun-beam;-thou never can'st change! Thou grow'st old!-Who does not?-But on earth what appears, Whose virtues like thine but increase with their years.

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,
Should a rival bow down to our idol below;

We are jealous!-Who's not?-Thou hast no such alloy,
For the more that enjoy thee, the more they enjoy.

Then the season of Youth and its jollities past,

For refuge we fly to the goblet at last;

There we find-Do we not?-In the flow of the soul,

That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.

When the Box of Pandora was opened on earth,

And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth,

Hope was left!-Was she not?-But the goblet we kiss,
And care not for hope who are certain of bliss!

Long life to the grape! and when summer is flown,
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own;

We must die!-Who shall not?-May our sins be forgiven,
And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven!

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