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BY LORD BYRON.

I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy nameThere is grief in the sound-there were guilt in the

fame;

But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart The deep thought that dwells in that silence of heart.

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace, Were those hours-can their joy or their bitterness cease?

We repent, we abjure, we will break from our chainWe must part, we must fly, to unite it again.

Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt;
Forgive me, adored one-forsake if thou wilt;
But the heart which I bear shall expire undebased,
And man shall not break it, whatever thou mayst.

And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee,
My soul in its bitterest blackness shall be;

And our days seem as swift, and our moments more

sweet,

With thee by my side, than the world at our feet.

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove;
And the heartless may wonder at all we resign,
Thy lips shall reply not to them, but to mine.

THE FLIGHT OF XERXES.

BY MISS JEWSBURY.

I SAW him on the battle eve,
When like a king he bore him!
Proud hosts in glittering helm and greave,
And prouder chiefs before him:

The warrior, and the warrior's deeds,
The morrow, and the morrow's meeds,-
No daunting thoughts came o'er him ;—
He looked around him, and his eye
Defiance flashed to earth and sky!

He looked on ocean,-its broad breast
Was covered with his fleet;

On earth, and saw from east to west
His bannered millions meet:

While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast,
Shook with the war-cry of that host,
The thunder of their feet!

He heard the imperial echoes ring-
He heard, and felt himself a king!

I saw him next alone ;-nor camp,
Nor chief his steps attended,
Nor banners blaze, nor courser's tramp,
With war-cries proudly blended:-
He stood alone, whom Fortune high
So lately seemed to deify,

He, who with Heaven contended,
Fled, like a fugitive and slave:
Behind, the foe,-before, the wave!

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THE FLIGHT OF XERXES.

He stood,-fleet, army, treasure gone,
Alone, and in despair!

While wave and wind swept ruthless on,.
For they were monarchs there;
And XERXES in a single bark,

Where late his thousand ships were dark,
Must all their fury dare;-
Thy glorious revenge was this,
Thy trophy, deathless SALAMIS!

THE SONG OF PERDITA.

THE nest of the dove is rifled

Alas!-Alas!—

The dream of delight is stifled,
And all that was

Of beauty and hope is broken-
But words will flee,

Though truest were ever spoken-
Alas, for me!

His words were as fragrant ever

As flowers to bees;

His voice like the mournful river-
But streams will freeze!

Ah! where shall I fly, deceived?
Ah! where where rest?

I am sick, like the dove bereaved,-
And have no nest!

STANZAS.

BY T. K. HERVEY.

SLUMBER lie soft on thy beautiful eye!

Spirits whose smiles are like thine of the sky,
Play thee to sleep with their visionless strings,
Brighter than thou-but because they have wings!
-Fair as a being of heavenly birth,

But loving and loved as a child of the earth!

Why is that tear? Art thou gone, in thy dream,
To the valley far off, and the moon-lighted stream,
Where the sighing of flowers, and the nightingale's

song,

Flings sweets on the wave, as it wanders along?
Blest be the dreams that restores them to thee,
But thou art the bird and the roses to me!

And now, as I watch o'er thy slumbers, alone,

And hear thy low breathing, and know thee mine own,
And muse on the wishes that grew in that vale,
And the fancies we shaped from the river's low tale,
I blame not the fate that has taken the rest,
While it left to my bosom its dearest and best.

Slumber lie soft on thy beautiful eye!
Dove be a rainbow to brighten thy sky!

Oh! not for sunshine and hope would I part

With the shade time has flung over all-but thy heart!
Still art thou all which thou wert when a child,
Only more holy-and only less wild!

LINES TO A YOUNG LADY,

ON HER MARRIAGE.

BY G. M. FITZGERALD.

THEY tell me, gentle lady, that they deck thee for a bride,

That the wreath is woven for thy hair, the bridegroom by thy side;

And I think I hear thy father's sigh, thy mother's calmer tone,

As they give thee to another's arms-their beautiful -their own.

I never saw a bridal but my eyelid hath been wet,
And it always seemed to me as though a joyous crowd

were met

To see the saddest sight of all, a gay and girlish thing Lay aside her maiden gladness-for a name-and for a ring.

And other cares will claim thy thoughts, and other hearts thy love,

And gayer friends may be around, and bluer skies above;

Yet thou, when I behold thee next, may'st wear upon thy brow,

Perchance, a mother's look of care, for that which decks it now.

And when I think how often I have seen thee, with thy mild

And lovely look, and step of air, and bearing like a

child,

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