I saw the Rajah arm'd for war; I heard his trumpet's stormy sound: The eve was on the mountain's brow: The Rajah's corse, cold, bleeding, bare; My steps were once in lordly halls, Upon my banner blazed the gem :- What's life?-at best a wandering breath; 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 : There, on the valley's blossom'd slope, 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, THE DEAD INFANT. A SKETCH. MRS. C. B. WILSON. "It is not dead, but sleepeth!" YES! this is Death, but in its fairest form, Yes! this is Death!-but like a cherub's sleep, O'er one that has escaped the woes of mortal birth? Here might the sculptor gaze, until his hand The still, calm brow-the smile on either cheek, 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, TEMPLE OF JUPITER OLYMPIUS AT T. K. HERVEY. THOU art not silent !-oracles are thine 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 From him who waked Aurora every morn, 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 Then all was bright, and fond, and fair,— And heart and hope are with the dead, Can I then love the air she loved? And thou to blame my tears forbear; |