For on this morn three potent nations meet, To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high; That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, There shall they rot-ambition's honoured fools! Yes! honour decks the turf that wraps their clay! Vain sophistry! in these behold the tools, The broken tools, that tyrants cast away By myriads, where they dare to pave their way With human hearts-to what ?-a dream alone. Can despots compass aught that hails their sway? Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone? Byron. TO LAURA. I did not weep, when I was told But ah! the words dropped icy cold Like dust to dust' upon a bier, The sounds sepulchral fell, That came my throbbing heart to sear, I met thee-on my marble brow I touched thee-thou was changed, and now, I smiled my pride did that require; And thou hadst shown how well A smile can cloak a passion dire, -Yea, smiled a cold farewell! Anon. THE MARTYRED MISSIONARY. I saw, upon a foreign shore, A prisoner in his cell; His hands were not imbrued in gore, What was his crime, save crime it be Free to adore the God of heaven To know the Saviour-Christ; His native land he left in youth- He hied him on his way— To the darkest spot of earth's domain- No home he sought by a river's brink, When sense was cloyed to rest, and think For the dark-hued damsels and the wineThe burning pleasures of the line. His hand it bore the word of God- The scorching soil unmoved he trod, And drank the unwholesome dew, Peace from its living page to fling, Balm in the cup of woe to wring. O, 'twas enough to rouse all hell The slave no longer look Ay, prone on earth, but, rising, scan, His chartered rights as free-born man! The tree of liberty was ne'er Of free spontaneous birth; Watered with blood and many a tear, It soars above the earth, Till, lost in depths of heaven on high, Then springs the wild hut, bosomed lone, Gay peace, with justice, build their throne Amid the solitude Heaven showers its dewiest influence bland As if with more unsparing hand. * I saw the prisoner in his cell With grief nigh broken-hearted, He bade me sing, far o'er the sea, Anon. LINES WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE. O, wanderer! would thy heart forget Each earthly passion and regret,. |