THY DAYS ARE DONE.

THY days are done, thy fame begun ;
Thy country's strains record
The triumphs of her chosen son,
The slaughters of his sword!
The deeds he did, the fields he won,
The freedom he restored!

Though thou art fall'n, while we are free
Thou shalt not taste of death!
The generous blood that flow'd from thee
Disdain'd to sink beneath :
Within our veins its currents be,

Thy spirit on our breath!

Thy name, our charging hosts along,
Shall be the battle-word!
Thy fall, the theme of choral song
From virgin voices pour'd!
To weep would do thy glory wrong:
Thou shalt not be deplored.

Earth yawn'd; he stood the centre of a cloud : Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud. Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye;

His hand was wither'd, and his veins were dry: His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there, Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare; From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame,

Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents came.
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak,
At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke.

"Why is my sleep disquieted?
Who is he that calls the dead?
Is it thou, O King? Behold,
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold:
Such are mine; and such shall be
Thine to-morrow, when with me:
Ere the coming day is done,
Such shalt thou be, such thy son.
Fare thee well, but for a day,
Then we mix our mouldering clay.
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low,
Pierced by shafts of many a bow;
And the falchion by thy side
To thy heart thy hand shall guide:
Crownless, breathless, headless fall,
Son and sire, the house of Saul!"

ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE
PREACHER."

FAME, wisdom, love, and power were mine,
And health and youth possess'd me;
My goblets blush'd from every vine.
And lovely forms caress'd me:
I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes,
And felt my soul grow tender;
All earth can give, or mortal prize,
Was mine of regal splendour.

I strive to number o'er what days
Remembrance can discover,
Which all that life or earth displays
Would lure me to live over.
There rose no day, there roll'd no hour
Of pleasure unembitter'd;
And not a trapping deck'd my power
That gall'd not while it glitter'd.
The serpent of the field, by art

And spells, is won from harming;
But that which coils around the heart,
Oh! who hath power of charming?
It will not list to wisdom's lore,

Nor music's voice can lure it; But there it stings for evermore The soul that must endure it.

WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS
SUFFERING CLAY.

WHEN coldness wraps this suffering clay,
Ah! whither strays the immortal mind?
It cannot die, it cannot stay,

But leaves its darken'd dust behind.. Then, unembodied, doth it trace

By steps each planet's heavenly way?
Or fill at once the realms of space,
A thing of eyes, that all survey?
Eternal, boundless, undecay'd,

A thought unseen, but seeing all,
All, all in earth or skies display'd,
Shall it survey, shall it recall:
Each fainter trace that memory holds
So darkly of departed years,
In one broad glance the soul beholds,
And all that was at once appears.
Before Creation peopled earth,

Its eye shall roll through chaos back:

And where the furthest heaven had birth,
The spirit trace its rising track.
And where the future mars or makes,
Its glance dilate o'er all to be,

While sun is quench'd, or system breaks,
Fix'd in its own eternity.

Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear,
It lives all passionless and pure :
An age shall fleet like earthly year;

Its years as moments shall endure.

Away, away, without a wing,

That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel,
How like art thou to joy remember'd well!
So gleams the past, the light of other days,
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless
rays;

A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold,
Distinct, but distant-clear, but oh, how cold!

A nameless and eternal thing, Forgetting what it was to die.

VISION OF BELSHAZZAR.
THE King was on his throne,
The Satraps throng'd the hall:
A thousand bright lamps shone
O'er that high festival.
A thousand cups of gold,
In Judah deem'd divine-
Jehovah's vessels hold

The godless Heathen's wine.
In that same hour and hall,
The fingers of a hand
Came forth against the wall,
And wrote as if on sand:
The fingers of a man ;-
A solitary hand
Along the letters ran,

And traced them like a wand.
The monarch saw, and shook,
And bade no more rejoice;
All bloodless wax'd his look,
And tremulous his voice.
"Let the men of lore appear,

The wisest of the earth,
And expound the words of fear,
Which mar our royal mirth.'
Chaldea's seers are good,

But here they have no skill;
And the unknown letters stood
Untold and awful still.
And Babel's men of age

Are wise and deep in lore; But now they were not sage, They saw-but knew no more. A captive in the land,

A stranger and a youth, He heard the king's command, He saw that writing's truth. The lamps around were bright, The prophecy in view; He read it on that night,-

The morrow proved it true.
"Belshazzar's grave is made,
His kingdom pass'd away,
He, in the balance weigh'd,

Is light and worthless clay;
The shroud his robe of state,
His canopy the stone;
The Mede is at his gate!

The Persian on his throne."

SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS!

SUN of the sleepless! melancholy star! Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far,

It was but abjuring my creed to efface
The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of

my race.

If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee!
If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free!
If the exile on earth is an outcast on high,
Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die.

I have lost for that faith more than thou canst

thine

The land and the life which for Him I resign.

HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. OH, Mariamne! now for thee

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding: Revenge is lost in agony,

And wild remorse to rage succeeding. Oh, Mariamne! where art thou?

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading: Ah! couldst thou-thou wouldst pardon now, Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. And is she dead?—and did they dare

Obey my frenzy's jealous raving? My wrath but doom'd my own despair: The sword that smote her's o'er me waving. But thou art cold, my murder'd love! And this dark heart is vainly craving For her who soars alone above,

And leaves my soul unworthy saving. She's gone, who shared my diadem;

She sunk, with her my joys entombing; I swept that flower from Judah's stem, Whose leaves for me alone were blooming; And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell, This bosom's desolation dooming; And I have earn'd those tortures well, Which unconsumed are still consuming!

ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF
JERUSALEM BY TITUS.
FROM the last hill that looks on thy once holy
dome,

I beheld thee, O Sion, when render'd to Rome: 'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall

Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall.

I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home, And forgot for a moment my bondage to come: I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane, And the fast-fetter'd hands that made vengeance

in vain.

green,

Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine.

And now on that mountain I stood on that day, But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting away!

Oh! would that the lightning had glared in its stead,

And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head!

But the gods of the Pagan shall never profane The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign; And scatter'd and scorn'd as Thy people may be, Our worship, O Father! is only for Thee.

BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT DOWN AND WEPT.

WE sat down and wept by the waters

Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,
Made Salem's high places his prey;
And ye, O her desolate daughters!
Were scatter'd all weeping away.
While sadly we gazed on the river

Which roll'd on in freedom below,
They demanded the song, but, oh, never
That triumph the stranger shall know!
May this right hand be wither'd for ever,
Ere it string our high harp for the foe!
On the willow that harp is suspended,

O Salem! its sound should be free;
And the hour when thy glories were ended
But left me that token of thee:
And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended
With the voice of the spoiler by me!

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,

That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,

And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride;

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

A SPIRIT PASSED BEFORE ME.
FROM JOB.

A SPIRIT pass'd before me: I beheld
The face of immortality unveil'd-
Deep sleep came down on every eye save
mine-

And there it stood-all formless, but divine:
Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake;
And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it spake :
"Is man more just than God? Is man more pure
Than He who deems even Seraphs insecure?
Creatures of clay-vain dwellers in the dust
The moth survives you, and are ye more just?
Things of a day! you wither ere the night,
Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light!"

FARE THEE WELL.

"Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny, and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness on the brain;

But never either found another

To free the hollow heart from paining-
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder.
A dreary sea now flows between,
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been."
COLERIDGE'S Christabel.

FARE thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well;
Even though unforgiving, never
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again :
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover
'Twas not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thee--
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe:

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, oh vet, thyself deceive not:
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:
Still thine own its life retaineth,

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
And the undving thought which paineth
Is- that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead:
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widow'd bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"
Though his care she must forego?
When her little hand shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is press'd,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had bless'd!
Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more mayst see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,

Even my soul forsakes me now:
But 'tis done-all words are idle-
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle

Force their way without the will.
Fare thee well! thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie,
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die.

A SKETCH.

"Honest-honest Iago!

If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee."
SHAKSPEARE.

BORN in the garret, in the kitchen bred,
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head:
Next-for some gracious service unexpress'd,
And from its wages only to be guess'd--
Raised from the toilette to the table, where
Her wondering betters wait behind her chair.
With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd,
She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd.
Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie,
The genial confidante, and general spy,
Who could, ye gods, her next employment
guess-

An only infant's earliest governess!

She taught the child to read, and taught so well, That she herself, by teaching, learn'd to spell. An adept next in penmanship she grows,

As many a nameless slander deftly shows:
What she had made the pupil of her art,
None know-but that high Soul secured the
heart,

And panted for the truth it could not hear,
With longing breast and undeluded ear.
Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind,
Which Flattery fool'd not, Baseness could not
blind,

Deceit infect not, near Contagion soil,
Indulgence weaken, nor Example spoil,
Nor master'd Science tempt her to look down
On humbler talents with a pitying frown,
Nor Genius swell, nor Beauty render vain,
Nor Envy ruffle to retaliate pain,
Nor Fortune change, Pride raise, nor Passion
bow,

Nor Virtue teach austerity-till now.
Serenely purest of her sex that live,

But wanting one sweet weakness-to forgive;
Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know,
She deems that all could be like her below;
Foe to all Vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend,
For Virtue pardons those she would amend.

But to the theme, now laid aside too long, The baleful Burthen of this honest song: Though all her former functions are no more, She rules the circle which she served before.

If mothers-none know why-before her quake;
If daughters dread her for the mother's sake;
If early habits-those false links, which bind
At times the loftiest to the meanest mind-
Have given her power too deeply to instil
The angry essence of her deadly will;
If like a snake she steal within your walls,
Till the black slime betray her as she crawls;
If like a viper to the heart she wind,
And leave the venom there she did not find
What marvel that this hag of hatred works
Eternal evil latent as she lurks,

To make a Pandemonium where she dwells,
And reign the Hecate of domestic hells?
Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints
With all the kind mendacity of hints,
While mingling truth with falsehood-sneers
with smiles-

A thread of candour with a web of wiles:
A plain but blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming,
To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd

scheming;

A lip of lies-a face form'd to conceal ;
And, without feeling, mock at all who feel:
With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown;
A cheek of parchment, and an eye of stone.
Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood
Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud,
Cased like the centipede in saffron mail,

Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale-
(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace
Congenial colours in that soul or face)-
Look on her features! and behold her mind
As in a mirror of itself defined:

Look on the picture! deem it not o'ercharged-
There is no trait which might not be enlarged:
Yet true to "Nature's journeymen," who made
This monster when their mistress left off trade-
This female dog-star of her little sky,
Where all beneath her influence droop or die.
Oh! wretch without a tear-without a
thought,

Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now;
Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain,
And turn thee howling in unpitied pain.
May the strong curse of crush'd affections light
Back on thy bosom with reflected blight!
And make thee in thy leprosy of mind
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind!
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate,
Black-as thy will for others would create:
Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust,
And thy soul welter in its hideous crust.
Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed,
The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast
spread!

Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with prayer,

Look on thine earthly victims-and despair! Down to the dust !-and, as thou rott'st away, Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous

clay.

But for the love I bore, and still must bear,
To her thy malice from all ties would tear-
Thy name-thy human name-to every eye
The climax of all scorn should hang on high,
Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers,
And festering in the infamy of years.

STANZAS TO AUGUSTA.
WHEN all around grew drear and dark,
And reason half withheld her ray,
And hope but shed a dying spark
Which more misled my lonely way;
In that deep midnight of the mind,
And that internal strife of heart,
When dreading to be deem'd too kind,

The weak despair-the cold depart;
When fortune changed, and love fled far,
And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast,
Thou wert the solitary star

Which rose and set not to the last.
Oh! blest be thine unbroken light,
That watch'd me as a seraph's eye,
And stood between me and the night,
For ever shining sweetly nigh.
And when the cloud upon us came,
Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray-
Then purer spread its gentle flame,

And dash'd the darkness all away.
Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,

And teach it what to brave or brookThere's more in one soft word of thine Than in the world's defied rebuke. Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree, That still unbroke, though gently bent, Still waves with fond fidelity

Its boughs above a monument.

The winds might rend, the skies might pour,
But there thou wert-and still woudst be
Devoted in the stormiest hour

To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me.
But thou and thine shall know no blight,
Whatever fate on me may fall;
For Heaven in sunshine will requite

The kind-and thee the most of all,