And in some rich, romantic vale,

Circled with heights of Alpine snow,
Where citron-woods enrich the gale,
And scented shrubs their balm exhale,
And flowering myrtles blow;
And 'midst the mulberry boughs on high,
Weaves the wild vine her tapestry:

On some bright streamlet's emerald side,
Where cedars wave, in graceful pride,
Bosomed in groves, their home shall rise,
A sheltered bower of Paradise!

Thus would the lover soothe to rest
With tales of hope her anxious breast;
Nor vain that dear enchanting lore,
Her soul's bright visions to restore,
And bid gay phantoms of delight
Float, in soft colouring, o'er her sight.
-Oh! youth, sweet May-morn, fled so soon,
Far brighter than life's loveliest noon,
How oft thy spirit's buoyant power
Will triumph, e'en in sorrow's hour
Prevailing o'er regret !

As rears its head the elastic flower

Though the dark tempest's recent shower
Hang on its petals yet!

Ah! not so soon can hope's gay smile
The aged bard to joy beguile;

Those silent years that steal away

The cheek's warm rose, the eye's bright ray,

Win from the mind a nobler prize,

E'en all its buoyant energies!

For him the April days are past,

When grief was but a fleeting cloud;

No transient shade will sorrow cast,

When age the spirit's might has bowed!

And, as he sees the land grow dim,

That native land, now lost to him,

Fixed are his eyes, and clasped his hands,
And long in speechless grief he stands.
So desolately calm his air,

He seems an image, wrought to bear

The stamp of deep, though hushed despair; Motion and life no sign bespeaks

Save that the night-breeze, o'er his cheeks,
Just waves his silvery hair!

Nought else could teach the eye to know
He was no sculptured form of woe!

Long gazing o'er the darkening flood,
Pale in that silent grief he stood;

Till the cold moon was waning fast,
And many a lovely star had died,
And the grey heavens deep shadows cast
Far o'er the slumbering tide;
And robed in one dark solemn hue,
Arose the distant shore to view.

Then, starting from his trance of woe,
Tears, long suppressed, in freedom flow,
While thus his wild and plaintive strain,
Blends with the murmur of the main.

THE BARD'S FAREWELL.

Thou setting moon! when next thy rays
Are trembling on the shadowy deep,
The land, now fading from my gaze,
These eyes in vain shall weep;
And wander o'er the lonely sea,
And fix their tearful glance on thee,

On thee! whose light so softly gleams,

Through the green oaks that fringe my native streams.

But, 'midst those ancient groves, no more

Shall I thy quivering lustre hail,

Its plaintive strain my heart must pour,

To swell a foreign gale;

The rocks, the woods, whose echoes woke,

When its full tones their stillness broke,

Deserted now, shall hear alone,

The brook's wild voice, the wind's mysterious moan.

And oh! ye fair, forsaken halls,

Left by your lord to slow decay,

Soon shall the trophies on your walls

Be mouldering fast away!

There shall no choral songs resound,

There shall no festal board be crowned;

But ivy wreath the silent gate,

And all be hushed, and cold, and desolate.

No banner from the stately tower,

Shall spread its blazoned folds on high,
There the wild brier and summer flower
Unmarked, shall wave and die.
Home of the mighty! thou art lone,
The noonday of thy pride is gone,
And, 'midst thy solitude profound,
A step shall echo like unearthly sound!

From thy cold hearths no festal blaze
Shall fill the hall with ruddy light,
Nor welcome, with convivial rays,
Some pilgrim of the night;

But there shall grass luxuriant spread,
As o'er the dwellings of the dead;
And the deep swell of every blast,
Seem a wild dirge for years of grandeur past.

And I-my joy of life is fled,

My spirit's power, my bosom's glow, The raven locks that graced my head, Wave in a wreath of snow!

And where the star of youth arose,

I deemed life's lingering ray should close,
And those loved trees my tomb o'ershade,
Beneath whose arching bowers my childhood played.

Vain dream; that tomb in distant earth
Shall rise, forsaken and forgot;

And thou, sweet land, that gavest me birth,
A grave must yield me not!

Yet, haply he for whom I leave

Thy shores, in life's dark winter-eve,
When cold the hand, and closed the lays,
And mute the voice he loved to praise,
O'er the hushed harp one tear may shed,
And one frail garland o'er the minstrel's bed!

'TWAS night in Babylon: yet many a beam,
Of lamps far glittering from her domes on high,
Shone, brightly mingling in Euphrates' stream
With the clear stars of that Chaldean sky,

Whose azure knows no cloud: each whispered sigh
Of the soft night-breeze through her terrace bowers,
Bore deepening tones of joy and melody,

O'er an illumined wilderness of flowers;

And the glad city's voice went up from all her towers.

But prouder mirth was in the kingly hall,
Where, 'midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band,
High at the stately midnight festival,

Belshazzar sat enthroned. There luxury's hand
Had showered around all treasures that expand
Beneath the burning East; all gems that pour
The sunbeams back; all sweets of many a land,
Whose gales waft incense from their spicy shore;
-But mortal pride looked on, and still demanded more.

With richer zest the banquet may be fraught,
A loftier theme may swell the exulting strain!
The lord of nations spoke,-and forth were brought

The spoils of Salem's devastated fane.

Thrice holy vessels !-pure from earthly stain,

And set apart, and sanctified to Him,
Who deigned within the oracle to reign,

Revealed, yet shadowed; making noonday dim,
To that most glorious cloud between the cherubim.

They came, and louder pealed the voice of song,
And pride flashed brighter from the kindling eye,
And He who sleeps not heard the elated throng,
In mirth that plays with thunderbolts, defy
The Rock of Zion !-Fill the nectar high,
High in the cups of consecrated gold!

And crown the bowl with garlands, ere they die,
And bid the censers of the temple hold

Offerings to Babel's gods, the mighty ones of old!

Peace!-is it but a phantom of the brain,
Thus shadowed forth, the senses to appal,
Yon fearful vision ?-Who shall gaze again
To search its cause?-Along the illumined wall,
Startling, yet riveting the eyes of all.
Darkly it moves,-a hand, a human hand,

O'er the bright lamps of that resplendent hall,

In silence tracing, as a mystic wand,

Words all unknown, the tongue of some far distant land!

There are pale cheeks around the regal board,
And quivering limbs, and whispers deep and low,
And fitful starts !-the wine, in triumph poured,
Untasted foams, the song hath ceased to flow,
The waving censer drops to earth—and lo!
The king of men, the ruler, girt with mirth,
Trembles before a shadow !-Say not so!
-The child of dust, with guilt's foreboding sight,
Shrinks from the dread Unknown, the avenging Infinite!

"But haste ye!-bring Chaldea's gifted seers,
The men of prescience!-haply to their eyes,

Which track the future through the rolling spheres,
Yon mystic sign may speak in prophecies.'
They come the readers of the midnight skies,
They that gave voice to visions—but in vain!
Still wrapt in clouds the awful secret lies,
It hath no language 'midst the starry train,

Earth has no gifted tongue Heaven's mysteries to explain.

Then stood forth one, a child of other sires,
And other inspiration !—one of those
Who on the willows hung their captive lyres,
And sat, and wept, where Babel's river flows.
His eye was bright, and yet the pale repose
Of his pure features half o'erawed the mind,
Telling of inward mysteries-joys and woes
In lone recesses of the soul enshrined;

Depths of a being sealed and severed from mankind.

Yes!-what was earth to him, whose spirit passed
Time's utmost bounds!-on whose unshrinking sight
Ten thousand shapes of burning glory cast
Their full resplendence ?-Majesty and might
Were in his dreams ;- for him the veil of light
Shrouding Heaven's inmost sanctuary and throne,
The curtain of the unutterably bright

Was raised to him, in fearful splendour shown,
Ancient of Days! e'en Thou madest thy dread presence
known.

He spoke the shadows of the things to come
Passed o'er his soul: "O king, elate in pride!