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Startling the eye ; the passing torches fung
Their flash through many a chamber from beneath,
Then vanished with the thick and hurrying throng ;
While the heart-sinking listener held his breath,
Catching in every sound the distant roar of death.
But earlier than that dim and early hour,
A lonely taper twinkled through the gloom ;
'Twas from the casement of the Temple tower,
'Twas from a king's, a martyr's, dungeon room!
There he subdued his spirit for its doom ;
And one old priest, and one pale follower,
Knelt weeping, as beside their master's tomb.
Rude was the altar, but the heart was there,
And peace and glorious hope were in that prison prayer.
But trumpets pealed, and torches glared below,
And from the tower rose woman's loud lament
And infant cries; and shadows seemed to go
With tossing arms, and heads in anguish bent,
Backwards and forwards hurrying, then, as spent,
Sink down, and all be silent for a time;
Until the royal victims' souls were rent
With some new yell of cruelty and crime,
Or thundered through the dusk the tocsin's deadly chime.
And 'twas as wild and still within the
square of luxury! The morn arose,
An iron harvest bristled through the air,
Bayonet and pike in countless, close-rocked rows,
Silent as death, the crowd,—the grim repose
Before the earthquake ;-none from roof or wall
Might look ; no hand the casement might unclose.
And in their centre, frowning o'er them all,
Their idol-the sole God before whose name they fall,
The Guillotine -when hell proposed the feast,
Where guilty France was drunk, but not with wine,
Till madness sat upon her visioned breast,
This was the press that crushed her bloody vine.
To this grim altar came the shuddering line,
Whose worship was,—beneath its knife to lie ;
The haggard traitors to the throne and shrine,
By traitors crushed, that in their turn must die ;.
Till massacre engulphed the wreck of liberty.
The Guillotine !-It stood in that pale day
Like a huge spectre, just from earth upsprung,
To summon from the tomb the fierce
That round its feet in desperate homage clung.
But on the wind a sudden trumpet rung,
All eyes were turned, and far as eye could stray,
Was caught a light, from moving helmets Alung,
A banner tossing in the tempest's sway, A wain that through the throng slow toiled its weary way.
'Tis done, the monarch on the scaffold stands;
The heademen grasp him of the myriads there,
That hear his voice, that see his fettered hands,
Not one has given a blessing or a tear.
But that old priest who answers him in prayer,
He speaks ; his dying thoughts to France are given.
His voice is drowned ; murder has no ear.
The saint unmurmuring to the axe is driven.
If ever spirit rose, that heart is calm in heaven.
France was anathema.Her cup
Was full, but this o'ertopped its burning brim,
And plagues, like serpent-teeth, her entrails tore ;
Crime şlipped to ravage through a land of crime !
In the sacked sepulchre caroused the mime !
On God's bigh altar sat idolatry;
Before the harlot knelt the nation's prime,
And sons dragged fathers, fathers sons to die, 'Till judgment girt the bow on its eternal thigh.
For John THORNTON of Clapham, Esq. who died at Bath,
November 7. 179).
Know, solemn visitant of the remains
Of Thornton, what high respect is due
The sacred cemetery that contains
What seen brought every virtue into view.
Say not, ye busy! that your cares exclude
Philanthropy's exertions and its joys :
The eminently active, and the good,
An unremitting industry employs.
Success sooths vanity ; but he remains
Modest and pious, while his stores increase :
To generous views he consecrates his gains ;
And, when these fail, his riches never cease.
Not by the poet's verse, or sculptor's art,
His name shall live, respected and revered :
He ever lives, upon the feeling heart,
And, as more known, is ever more endeared.
When time shall cease to run,
Resign its charge, bis memory shall endure :
Dear to the Saviour is his servant's dust.
His first renowned, the patron of the poor.
Rev. Dr Martin.
Upon yon dial-stone
Behold the shade of time,
For ever circling on and on,
In silence more sublime
Than if the thunders of the spheres
Pealed forth its march to mortal ears.
It meets us hour by hour,
4. Doles out our little span,
Reveals a pre sence and a power
Felt and confessed by man ;-
The drop of moments, day by day,
That rock of ages wear away.
Woven by a hand unseen,
Upon that stone survey