THE DEATH OF POMPEY THE GREAT. When a monarch, ay, almost a god, And myriads thronged around him; His fame, wealth, honours, all her own, Such deep, devoted love as now. Forlorn, deserted and betrayed, Doomed of the satraps he had made Of wealth, fame, power, even hope bereft, What lifts his soul his fate above, She looks upon Pelugium's strand, A boat comes tilting through the spray One word-and all is o'er! 161 Vain her entreaties; vainer now, A shriek is on that noontide wave, And shouts of triumph rend the air 'Tis the requiem wild of Woman's love, And yon dastard traitors' cheeks grow pale At the dooming tones of that fearful wail. 'Tis eve; those savage shouts are o'er, That shriek hath died away; And far from Egypt's fatal shore, Her bark pursues its way;What is to her the fitful breeze, The conflict stern of the skies and seas, To the calm of yonder bay! THE DEATH OF POMPEY THE GREAT. She'd rather seek the whirlpool's breast, What recks it where the casket lies, When the deathless soul is flown! Though of all the minions of thy power, Where traitor hands have laid thee; And gathering from the grasping wave, Wrecked, like the glories of the brave When fortune's clouds grow dark; And flames, as bright as Truth, arise, 163 MUSIC. MYSTERIOUS keeper of the key The sunbright hopes of early youth, To the Enthusiast's heart, thy tone Breathes of the lost and lovely one; And calls back moments, brief as dear, When last 'twas wafted on his ear. The Exile listens to the song The warrior, from the strife retired, Enchantress sweet of smiles and tears, |