Then the Martyr's solemn cry,
That a thousand years has rung,
Where their robes of crimson lie
Round the Golden Altar' flung,
Shall be heard,-and from the 'throne'
The trumpet of the 'Judgment' blown.
Wo to Earth, the mighty, wo!'
Yet shall Earth her conscience lull,
Till above the brim shall flow
The draught of gall.—The cup is full.
Yet a moment!-Comes the ire,-
Famine, bloodshed, flood and fire.
First shall fall a Mighty one!
Ancient crime had crowned his brow,
Dark Ambition raised his throne-
Truth his victim and his foe.
Earth shall joy in all her fear
O'er the great Idolater.
Then shall rush abroad the blaze
Sweeping Heathen zone by zone;
Afric's tribe the spear shall raise,
Shivering India's pagod throne:
China hear her Idol's knell
In the Russian's cannon-peal.
On the Turk shall fall the blow
From the Grecian's daggered hand!
Blood like winter-showers shall flow,
Till he treads the Syrian land!
Then shall final vengeance shine,
And all be sealed in Palestine!
NIGHT! thou art silent; thou art beautiful;
Thou art majestic; and thy brightest moon
Rides high in heaven, while on the stream below,
Her image, glimmering as the waters glide,
Floats at the feet of Boulten. There no more
The green graves of the pestilence are seen;
O'er them the plough hath passed, and harvests wave
Where haste and horror flung the infectious corpse.
Grey Wharncliffe's rocks remain, still to out-live
Countless editions of the Autumn leaf.
But where are now their terrors? Striga's form
Of largest beauty, wanders here no more;
No more her deep and mellow voice awakes
The echoes of the forest; and a tale
Of fear and wonder, serves but to constrain,
Around the fire of some far moorland farm,
The speechless circle, while the importunate storm,
O'er the bowed roof, growls with a demon's voice.
The poacher whistles in the Dragon's den ;'
Nor fiend, nor witch fears he. With felon foot
He haunts the wizard wave, and makes the rock,
Where spirits walk, his solitary seat;
The unsleeping gale moves his dark curls; the moon
Looks on his wild face; at his feet, his dog
Watches his eye; and while no sound is heard,
Save of the hooming Don, or whirling leaf,
Or rustling fern, he listens silently,
But not in fear.-At once, he bounds away;
And the snared hare shrieks, quivers, and is still.
Sheffield Iris.
O DAUGHTER dear, my darling child,
Prop of my mortal pilgrimage,
Thou who hast care and pain beguiled,
And wreathed with Spring my wintry age!-
Through thee a second prospect opes
Of life, when but to live is glee,
And jocund joys, and youthful hopes,
Come thronging to my heart through thee.
Backward thou lead'st me to the bowers
Where love and youth their transports gave;
While forward still thou strewest flowers,
And bid'st me live beyond the grave;
For still my blood in thee shall flow,
Perhaps to warm a distant line,
Thy face, my lineaments shall show,
And e'en my thoughts survive in thine.
Yes, daughter, when this tongue is mute,
This heart is dust-these eyes are closed,
And thou art singing to thy lute
Some stanza by thy Sire composed,
To friends around thou may'st impart
A thought of him who wrote the lays,
And from the grave my form shall start,
Embodied forth to fancy's gaze.
Then to their memories will throng
Scenes shared with him who lies in earth;
The cheerful page, the lively song,
The woodland walk, or festive mirth;
Then may they heave the pensive sigh,
That friendship seeks not to control,
And from the fixed and thoughtful eye,
The half unconscious tears may roll;-
Such now bedew my cheek-but mine
Are drops of gratitude and love,
That mingle human with divine,
The gift below, its source above.—
How exquisitely dear thou art
Can only be by tears expressed,
And the fond thrillings of my heart,
While thus I clasp thee to my breast!
New Monthly Magazine.
THOU art not lost.-Thy spirit giveth
Immortal peace, and high it liveth!
Thou art not mute.-With angels' blending,
Thy voice is still to me descending!
Thou are not absent.-Sweetly smiling,
I see thee yet, my griefs beguiling!
Soft, o'er my slumbers, art thou beaming,
The sunny spirit of my dreaming!
Thine eyelids seem not yet concealing
In death their orbs of matchless feeling;
Their living charms my heart still numbers ;-
Ah! sure they do but veil thy slumbers!
As kind thou art ;-for still thou'rt meeting This breast, which gives the tender greeting! And shall I deem thee altered?-Never! Thou'rt with me waking-dreaming—ever! Observer.
FAREWELL!-You have banished me then
From my home, and the language of men
Must come foreign and chill to my heart!-
But you scorned-and 'twas time to depart.
I go, like the shadow that flies,
When night and her darknesses rise,
And there is not a star in the sky,
To light me on-even to die.
You have slighted me, cruel, and yet
I cannot disdain or forget,
For in hate you still keep your control,
And it lies like a chain on my soul.
And now for the storm and the breeze,
And the music that lives on the seas,
And the ever-green valleys that lie
('Midst the Alps) in the smile of the sky!
I shall stand on the mountain, and shout
To the stars as they wander about,
And perhaps THEY may stop at my call-
But thou wilt be brighter than all.
Oh! then why do I strive to remove
Thee? I lived on the thought of thy love
Once, and ever must think ('tis my fate)
Of Thee-though I think of thy hate.
Farewell! Thou hast struck in thy pride
A heart that for Thee would have died!
Yet I bear the reproach, as I go,
Of filling thy bosom with wo.
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