But slow his step-and where, not yet o'erthrown,
Still towered a pillar 'midst the waste alone,
Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid,
To slumber in its solitary shade.

He slept-and darkly, on his brief repose,
The indignant genius of the scene arose.
Clouds robed his dim unearthly form, and spread
Mysterious gloom around his crownless head-
Crownless, but regal still. With stern disdain
The kingly shadow seemed to lift his chain,
Gazed on the palm, his ancient sceptre torn,
And his eye kindled with immortal scorn!

"And sleepst thou, Roman?" cried his voice austere ;
"Shall son of Latium find a refuge here?

Awake! arise! to speed the hour of Fate,

When Rome shall fall, as Carthage desolate!

Go! with her children's flower, the free, the brave,
People the silent chambers of the grave;

So shall the course of ages yet to be,
More swiftly waft the day, avenging me!

"Yes, from the awful gulf of years to come,
I hear a voice that prophesies her doom;
I see the trophies of her pride decay,
And her long line of triumphs pass away,
Lost in the depths of time-while sinks the star
That led her march of heroes from afar!
Lo! from the frozen forests of the North,
The sons of slaughter pour in myriads forth!
Who shall awake the mighty?- will thy woe,
City of thrones! disturb the realms below?
Call on the dead to hear thee! let thy cries
Summon their shadowy legions to arise,
Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls!
-Barbarians revel in their ancient halls,
And their lost children bend the subject knee,
'Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the free.
Bird of the sun! dread eagle! borne on high,
A creature of the empyreal-thou, whose eye
Was lightning to the earth-whose pinion waved
In haughty triumph o'er a world enslaved;
Sink from thy heavens! for glory's noon is o'er,
And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more!
Closed is thy regal course-thy crest is torn,
And thy plume vanished from the realms of morn.
The shaft hath reached thee !-rest with chiefs and kings,
Who conquered in the shadow of thy wings;
Sleep! while thy foes exult around their prey,
And share thy glorious heritage of day!
But darker years shall mingle with the past,
And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last.

O'er the seven hills I see destruction spread,
And Empire's widow veils with dust her head!
Her gods forsake each desolated shrine,

Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine:
'Midst fallen palaces she sits alone,
Calling heroic shades from ages gone,

Or bids the nations 'midst her deserts wait
To learn the fearful oracles of Fate !

"Still sleepst thou, Roman? Son of Victory, rise!
Wake to obey the avenging Destinies !

Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country's blood
Shall swell and darken Tiber's yellow flood!
My children's manès call-awake! prepare
The feast they claim!-exult in Rome's despair!
Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries,
Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies;

Let carnage revel, e'en her shrines among,
Spare not the valiant, pity not the young!
Haste! o'er her hills the sword's libation shed,
And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head!"

The vision flies-a mortal step is near,
Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer's ear;
He starts, he wakes to woe-before him stands
The unwelcome messenger of harsh commands,
Whose faltering accents tell the exiled chief,
To seek on other shores a home for grief.
-Silent the wanderer sat-but on his cheek
The burning glow far more than words might speak;
And, from the kindling of his eye, there broke
Language, where all the indignant soul awoke,
Till his deep thought found voice-then, calmly stern,
And sovereign in despair, he cried, "Return!
Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen

Marius, the exile, rest where Carthage once hath been!"

267

SONG.

FOUNDED ON AN ARABIAN ANECDOTE.

AWAY! though still thy sword is red
With life-blood from my sire,

No drop of thine may now be shed
To quench my bosom's fire;

Though on my heart 'twould fall more blest
Than dews upon the desert's breast.

I've sought thee 'midst the sons of men,
Through the wide city's fanes;
I've sought thee by the lion's den,
O'er pathless, boundless plains;
No step that marked the burning waste,
But mine its lonely course hath traced.

Thy name hath been a baleful spell
O'er my dark spirit cast;

No thought may dream, no words may tell,
What there unseen hath passed:
This withered cheek, this faded eye,
Are seals of thee-behold! and fly!

Hath not my cup for thee been poured,
Beneath the palm-tree's shade?
Hath not soft sleep thy frame restored,
Within my dwelling laid?

What though unknown-yet who shall rest

Secure-if not the Arab's guest?

Haste thee! and leave my threshold-floor
Inviolate and pure!

Let not thy presence tempt me more,-
Man may not thus endure!

Away! I bear a fettered arm,

A heart that burns-but must not harm!

Begone! outstrip the swift gazelle!

The wind in speed subdue!
Fear cannot fly so swift, so well,
As vengeance shall pursue;
And hate, like love, in parting pain,
Smiles o'er one hope we meet again!

To-morrow-and the avenger's hand,
The warrior's dart is free!

E'en now, no spot in all thy land,
Save this, had sheltered thee:
Let blood the monarch's hall profane,-
The Arab's tent must bear no stain!

Fly! may the desert's fiery blast
Avoid thy secret way!

And sternly, till thy steps be past,
Its whirlwinds sleep to-day!

I would not that thy doom should be
Assigned by Heaven to aught but me.

THE CROSS OF THE SOUTH.

[The beautiful constellation of the Cross is seen only in the southern hemisphere. The following lines are supposed to be addressed to it by a Spanish traveller in South America.]

IN the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread,
Where savannahs, in boundless magnificence, spread,
And bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on high,
The far Cordilleras unite with the sky.

The fir-tree waves o'er me, the fire-flies' red light
With its quick-glancing splendour illumines the night;
And I read in each tint of the skies and the earth
How distant my steps from the land of my birth.

But to thee, as thy lode-stars resplendently burn
In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I turn,
Bright Cross of the South! and beholding thee shine,
Scarce regret the loved land of the olive and vine.

Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main
My fathers unfolded the ensign of Spain,
And planted their faith in the regions that see
Its unperishing symbol emblazoned in thee.

How oft in their course o'er the ocean unknown,
Where all was mysterious, and awful, and lone,

Hath their spirit been cheered by thy light, when the deep
Reflected its brilliance in tremulous sleep!

As the vision that rose to the lord of the world,1
When first his bright banner of faith was unfurled;
Even such, to the heroes of Spain, when their prow
Made the billows the path of their glory, wert thou.

And to me, as I traversed the world of the west,
Through deserts of beauty in stillness that rest;
By forests and rivers untamed in their pride,
Thy hues have a language, thy course is a guide.

Shine on-my own land is a far distant spot,
And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it not;
And the eyes that I love, though e'en now they may be
O'er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on thee!

1 Constantine.

But thou to my thoughts are a pure-blazing shrine,
A fount of bright hopes, and of visions divine;
And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free,
Soars high o'er the Andes to mingle with thee.

THE SLEEPER OF MARATHON.

I LAY upon the solemn plain,
And by the funeral mound,

Where those who died not there in vain,
Their place of sleep had found.

'Twas silent where the free blood gushed,
When Persia came arrayed-

So many a voice had there been hushed,
So many a footstep stayed.

I slumbered on the lonely spot
So sanctified by death:

I slumbered-but my rest was not
As theirs who lay beneath.

For on my dreams, that shadowy hour,
They rose-the chainless dead-
All armed they sprang, in joy, in power,
Up from their grassy bed.

I saw their spears, on that red field,
Flash as in time gone by-

Chased to the seas without his shield,
I saw the Persian fly.

I woke the sudden trumpet's blast
Called to another fight-
From visions of our glorious past,
Who doth not wake in might ?

TO MISS F. A. L.

ON HER BIRTHDAY.

WHAT wish can friendship form for thee,
What brighter star invoke to shine?

Thy path from every thorn is free,

And every rose is thine !

Life hath no purer joy in store,

Time hath no sorrow to efface;

Hope cannot paint one blessing more
Than memory can retrace !