I hear, from clouds of fluid gold,
The evening music of the west,
While the light gondolas unfold

Their silken sails on ocean's breast.

From moonlight decks the golden string
Sounds, while the conscious waters heave,
And o'er the shrouds I love to sing
The requiem of the dying eve.

I steal the soft voice of the gale,

That pensive Beauty weeps to hear; While the foldings of her snowy veil

Are moisten'd with a falling tear.

She lifts Devotion's beaming eye,

Rapt with the music of the main, Till the breathing of a mortal's sigh

Recalls her to the world again.

When the day-star rushes from on high,
My sanguine coral's branching tree
Warms with its boughs of roseate dye

The liquid lustre of the sea.

My wild harp charms the list'ning night
With tones that minist'ring angels breathe,
When glows the blush of pure delight,
To warm the pallid cheek of death.

From golden sands I love to view

The cold moon of the northern pole, When round her throne of cloudless blue The circling waves of ether roll.

She wanders through the length'ning night, And glitters on my crystal dome,

Whose pearly towers in fluid light
Emerge from Zembla's broken foam.

They shiver as the tempests rave

Round shudd'ring Nature's gelid form, While riding on the mountain wave,

I combat Heav'n's unyielding storm.

Ah! when the frozen canvass gleams

'Mid icy mountains far away, The sick'ning sun's unwarming beams Waste on the surge their languid day.

When the rocking keels the waters brave,
And the snow-cloud's changing meteors burn,

I weep to think, that from the wave
The fated barks shall ne'er return.

When the cry of death is on the deep,
And struggling valour toils in vain,
I hush, in everlasting sleep,

The luckless wand'rers of the main.

When their life-blood o'er the ocean swims,
And curdles round my central cave,

I hide the victims' stiffen'd limbs

In the darkness of the oozy wave.

I bear to my unfathom'd cell

The waving sea-flowers' deathless bloom,
To embalm the billows' fitful swell,
That surges o'er the sailor's tomb.

Round many a proud unshaken height,
That props the blue vault of the sky,
I revel in the beamy light

That sports in boundless liberty.

E

While from my streaming locks I fling
The fragrance of the ocean breeze,
I hear the lunar spirits sing

In the summer of Atlantic seas.

They spread their robes of silv'ry hue

O'er the pale moon of the placid even, When, wrapt in clouds of softest blue, She slumbers at the gates of heaven.

THE DYING SOLDIER.

ANONYMOUS.

The following Verses were written on an incident which happened during the last campaign in Egypt.

THE tumult of battle had ceas'd-high in air
The standard of Britain triumphantly wav'd;
And the remnant of foes had all fled in despair,
Whom night, intervening, from slaughter had sav'd;-

When a veteran was seen, by the light of his lamp,
Slow-pacing the bounds of the carcass-strewn plain;
Not base his intent,—for he quitted his camp
To comfort the dying-not plunder the slain.

Though dauntless in war, at a story of woe Down his age-furrow'd cheeks the warm tears often ran;

Alike proud to conquer, or spare a brave foe,
He fought like a hero!" but felt like a man!"

As he counted the slain, "Oh, Conquest!" he cried,

"Thou art glorious indeed, but how dearly thou'rt won!"

"Too dearly, alas!" a voice faintly repliedIt thrill'd through his heart!-'twas the voice of his

Son!

He listen'd aghast !—all was silent again;

He search'd by the beams which his lamp feebly shed,

And found his brave Son, amid hundreds of slain, The corse of a comrade supporting his head!

"My Henry!" the sorrowful parent exclaim'd, "Has fate rudely wither'd thy laurels so soon?" The youth op'd his eyes, as he heard himself nam'd, And awoke for a while, from his death-boding

swoon.

He gaz'd on his Father, who knelt by his side, And seizing his hand, press'd it close to his heart; "Thank Heav'n, thou art here, my dear Father!" he cried;

"For soon! ah, too soon we for ever must part!

"Though death early calls me from all that I love! From glory, from thee, yet perhaps 'twill be giv'n To meet thee again in yon regions above!" His eyes beam'd with hope, as he fix'd them on heav'n.

"Then let not thy bosom with vain sorrow swell;
Ah! check, ere it rises, the heart-rending sigh!
I fought for my King! for my Country! I fell
In defence of their rights! and I glory to die!"

ON PARTING.

LORD BYRON.

THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left,
Shall never part from mine,
Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, An equal love may see;

The tear that from thine eyelid streams, Can weep no change in me.

I ask no pledge to make me blest
In musing when alone;
Nor one memorial for a breast,
Whose thoughts are all thine own.

Nor need I write-to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak:
Oh! what can idle words avail,

Unless the heart could speak?

By day or night, in weal or woe,
That heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent ache for thee.