I saw the Rajah arm'd for war;
I saw his chieftains trampling round;
I saw his banner like a star;

I heard his trumpet's stormy sound:
On rush'd they, like the stormy sea-
I took my lute, and sang to thee.

The eve was on the mountain's brow:
I heard the echo of despair;
I saw the host returning slow-

The Rajah's corse, cold, bleeding, bare;
I saw his gore, and wept to see :-
That eve I touch'd no lute to thee.

My steps were once in lordly halls,
My brow once wore the diadem,
A thousand barbs were in my stalls,

Upon my banner blazed the gem :-
All fled like dreams, so let them flee-
I take my lute, and sing to thee.

What's life?-at best a wandering breath;
When saddest, but a passing sigh;
When happiest, but a summer wreath-
A sigh of roses floating by.

Soon, soon alike the bond and free

So sings my lute, and sings to thee.

Then come, Sherene! I've found a grove, Beneath a wild hill's purple van,

Where coos the silver-bosom'd dove;

Where the wild peacock spreads his fan;

Where springs the roebuck in his glee :
Love, hear my lute, it sings to thee.

There, on the valley's blossom'd slope,
Shines to the sun the pheasant's plume,
There, like a ray, the antelope

Gleams through the thicket's fragrant gloom. The stately camel bends the knee :

Love, hear my lute-"'Tis all for thee."

There morn is like a new-waked rose,
And like a rosy shower the noon;
And evening, like a sweet song's close;
And like a sun half veiled, the moon.
But dark my Paradise will be :-
Soul of my soul, I die for thee.

THE DEAD INFANT.

A SKETCH.

MRS. C. B. WILSON.

"It is not dead, but sleepeth!"

YES! this is Death, but in its fairest form,
And stript of all its terrors;-that closed eye
Tells nothing of the cold and hungry worm
That holds his revel-feast on frail mortality!

Yes! this is Death!-but like a cherub's sleep,
So beautiful-so placid ;-who, of earth,
(And tasting earthly cares), would wish to weep

O'er one that has escaped the woes of mortal birth?

Here might the sculptor gaze, until his hand
Had learn'd to fashion forth yon lovely thing,
Pale as the chisell'd marble ;-here command
Those beauties that defy all Art's imagining!

The still, calm brow-the smile on either cheek,
The little folded hands,-the lips apart,

As though they would the bonds of silence break,

Are they not models fair, meet for the sculptor's art?

Proud Science, come! learn of this beauteous clay, That seems to mock the dread Destroyer's reign, As though in slumber's downy links it lay, Awaiting but the morn, to wake to life again!

Yes! this is Death! but in its fairest form,
And stript of all its terrors ;-that seal'd eye
Tells nothing of the cold and hungry worm
That holds his revel-feast with frail mortality!

TEMPLE OF JUPITER OLYMPIUS AT
ATHENS.

T. K. HERVEY.

THOU art not silent !-oracles are thine
Which the wind utters, and the spirit hears,—
Lingering, 'mid ruin'd fane and broken shrine,
O'er many a tale and trace of other years!
Bright as an ark, o'er all the flood of tears
That wraps thy cradle land-thine earthly love—
Where hours of hope, 'mid centuries of fears,

Have gleam'd, like lightnings, through the gloom

above

Stands, roofless to the sky, thy house, Olympian Jove!

Thy column'd aisles with whispers of the past Are vocal!-and, along thine ivied walls, While Elian echoes murmur in the blast, And wild-flowers hang, like victor-coronals, In vain the turban'd tyrant rears his halls, And plants the symbol of his faith and slaughters,Now, even now, the beam of promise falls Bright upon Hellas, as her own bright daughters, And a Greek Ararat is rising o'er the waters.

Thou art not silent!-when the southern fair, Ionia's moon, looks down upon thy breast, Smiling, as pity smiles above despair, Soft as young beauty soothing age to rest, Sings the night-spirit in thy weedy crest; And she, the minstrel of the moonlight hours, Breathes, like some lone one sighing to be blest, Her lay-half hope, half sorrow-from the flowers, And hoots the prophet-owl, amid his tangled bowers!

And round thine altar's mouldering stones are borne
Mysterious harpings, wild as ever crept

From him who waked Aurora every morn,
And sad as those he sung her till she slept!
A thousand, and a thousand years have swept
O'er thee, who wert a moral from thy spring-
A wreck in youth !—nor vainly hast thou kept
Thy lyre! Olympia's soul is on the wing,
And a new Iphitus has waked beneath its string!

SONG..

REV. T. DALE.

O, BREATHE no more that simple air,Though soft and sweet thy wild notes swell, To me the only tale they tell

Is cold despair!—

I heard it once from lips as fair,

I heard it in as sweet a tone,

Now I am left on earth alone,

And she is--where?

How have those well-known sounds renew'd
The dreams of earlier, happier hours,
When life-a desert now-was strew'd
With fairy flowers !---

Then all was bright, and fond, and fair,—
Now flowers are faded, joys are fled,

And heart and hope are with the dead,
For she is where?

Can I then love the air she loved?
Can I then hear the melting strain
Which brings her to my soul again,
Calm and unmoved?—

And thou to blame my tears forbear;
For while I list, sweet maid! to thee,
Remembrance whispers, "such was she,"-
And she is-where?