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Marius, during the time of his exile, seeking refuge in Africa, had landed at Carthage; when an officer, sent by the Roman Governor of Africa, came, and thus addressed him- Marius, I come from the Prætor Sextilius, to tell you, that he forbids you to set foot in Africa. If you obey not, he will support the Senate's decree, and treat you as a public enemy.' Marius, upon hearing this, was struck dumb with grief and indig nation. He uttered not a word for some time, but regarded the officer with a menacing aspect. At length, the officer enquired what answer he should carry to the Governor? Go and tell him,' said the unfortunate man, with a sigh, that thou hast seen the exiled Marius sitting among the ruins of Carthage.' PLUTARCH.

"Twas noon-and Afric's dazzling sun on high,
With fierce resplendence filled the unclouded sky;
No zephyr waved the palm's majestic head,
And smooth alike the seas and deserts spread;
While, desolate, beneath a blaze of light,
Silent and lonely, as at dead of night,

The wreck of Carthage lay;-her prostrate Fanes
Had strewed their precious marble o'er the plains;
Dark weeds and grass the column had o'ergrown,
The lizard basked upon the altar-stone;
'Whelmed by the ruins of their own abodes
Had sunk the forms of heroes and of gods;
While near-dread offspring of the burning day-
Coiled, 'midst forsaken halls, the serpent lay.

There came an exile, long by fate pursued,
To shelter in that awful solitude.
Well did that wanderer's high, yet faded mien,
Suit the sad grandeur of the desert scene;
Shadowed, not veiled, by locks of wintry snow,
Pride sat, still mighty, on his furrowed brow;
Time had not quenched the terrors of his eye,
Nor tamed his glance of fierce ascendency;
While the deep meaning of his features told,
Ages of thought had o'er his spirit rolled,

Nor dimmed the fire that might not be controlled :

And still did power invest his stately form,
Shattered, but yet unconquered, by the storm.
But slow his step-and where, not yet o'erthrown,
Still towered a pillar, 'midst the waste alone;
Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid,
To slumber in its solitary shade.

He slept and darkly on his brief repose,
The indignant Genius of the scene arose.
Clouds robed his dim, unearthly form, and spread
Mysterious gloom around his crownless head—
Crownless, but regal still.-With stern disdain,
The kingly shadow seemed to lift his chain,
Gazed on the palm, his ancient sceptre torn,
And his eye kindled with immortal scorn!

'And sleep'st thou, Roman ?' cried his voice austere ;

'Shall son of Latium find a refuge here ?

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Awake! arise! to speed the hour of fate,

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When Rome shall fall, as Carthage, desolate!

Go! with her children's flower, the free, the brave,

People the silent chambers of the grave;

So shall the course of ages yet to be,

More swiftly waft the day, avenging me!

'Yes! from the awful gulph of years to come,
I hear a voice that prophecies her doom;
I see the trophies of her pride decay,
And her long line of triumphs pass away,
Lost in the depths of time-while sinks the star
That led her march of heroes from afar!

'Lo! from the frozen forests of the North,
The sons of slaughter pour in myriads forth!
Who shall awake the mighty ?-Will thy wo,
City of thrones! disturb the realms below?
Call on the dead to hear thee! let thy cries
Summon their shadowy legions to arise,
Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls!
-Barbarians revel in their ancient halls!
And their lost children bend the subject-knee,
'Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the free!

'Bird of the sun! dread eagle! born on high,
A creature of the empyreal-Thou, whose eye
Was lightening to the earth-whose pinion waved,
In haughty triumph, o'er a world enslaved;
Sink from thy heavens! for glory's noon is o'er,
And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more!
Closed is thy regal course-thy crest is torn,
And thy plume banished from the realms of morn.
The shaft hath reached thee--rest with chiefs and kings,
Who conquered in the shadow of thy wings!
Sleep! while thy foes exult around their prey,
And share thy glorious heritage of day!

'But darker years shall mingle with the past,
And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last.
O'er the seven hills I see destruction spread,
And empire's widow veils with dust her head!
Her gods forsake each desolated shrine,
Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine;
'Midst fallen palaces she sits alone,
Calling heroic shades from ages gone,
Or bids the nations, 'midst her deserts wait,
To learn the fearful oracles of fate.

'Still sleep'st thou, Roman? Son of victory! rise!
Wake to obey the avenging destinies!
Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country's blood
Shall swell and darken Tiber's yellow flood.
My children's names call-awake! prepare
The feast they claim-exult in Rome's despair!
Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries;
Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies!
Let Carnage revel e'en her shrines among!
Spare not the valiant! pity not the young!
Haste! o'er her hills the sword's libation shed,
And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head!'

The vision flies-a mortal step is near,
Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer's ear:

He starts, he wakes to wo-before him stands
The unwelcome messenger of harsh commands,
Whose faltering accents bid the exiled chief
Seek, far on other shores, a home for grief.

Silent the wanderer sat-but on his cheek
The burning glow, far more than words might speak;
And, from the kindling of his eye, there broke
Language, where all the indignant soul awoke,
Till his deep thought found voice-then, calmly stern,
And sovereign in despair, he cried, 'Return!
Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen
Marius the exile rest where Carthage once hath been!'
Constable's Edinburgh Magazine.


LIGHT be around thee, hope be thy guide;
Gay be thy bark, and smooth be the tide ;
Soft be the wind that beareth thee on,
Sweet be thy welcome, thy wanderings done.

Bright be the hearth, may the eyes you love best
Greet the long-absent again to his rest;
Be thy life like glad music, which floateth away
As the gale lingering over the rose-trée in May.

But yet while thy moments in melody roll,
Be one dark remembrance left on thy soul,

Be the song of the evening thrice sad on thine ear-
Then think how your twilights were past away here.

And yet let the shadow of sorrowing be
Light as the dream of the morning to thee!
One fond, faint recollection, one last sigh of thine
May be granted to love so devoted as mine!
Literary Gazette.

L. E. L.



GENTLEST one, I bow to thee,
Rose-lipped queen of poesy,

Sweet ERATO, thou whose chords
Waken but for love-touched words!

Never other crown be mine

Than a flower-linked wreath of thine;
Green leaves of the laurel tree

Are for bards of high degree;

Better rose or violet suit

With thy votary's softer lute.

Not thine those proud lines that tell

How kings ruled, or heroes fell;
But that low and honey tone
So peculiarly Love's own;
Music such as the night breeze
Wakens from the willow trees;
Such as murmurs from the shell,
Wave-kissed in some ocean cell;
Tales sweet as the breath of flowers,
Such as in the twilight hours

The young Bard breathes; and also thine
Those old memories divine,

Fables Grecian poets sung

When on Beauty's lips they hung,
Till the essenced song became
Like that kiss, half dew, half flame.
Thine each frail and lovely thing,
The first blossoms of the spring:
Violets, ere the sunny ray
Drinks their fragrant life away;
Roses, ere their crimson breast
Throws aside its green moss vest;
Young hearts, or ere toil, or care,
Or gold, has left a world-stain there.

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