The sport of every ruffian's tread, The mark for every coward's spear? Of the fallen chief, and towards the flame And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze, "Now, freedom's God! I come to Thee," The youth exclaims, and with a smile Of triumph vaulting on the pile, In that last effort, ere the fires Have harm'd one glorious limb, expires! What shriek was that on Oman's tide? It came from yonder drifting bark, That just has caught upon her side The death-light-and again is dark. Of a small veteran band, with whom The ransom of so dear a prize. Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side, Was toward that fatal mountain turn'd, As yet all lone and tranquil burn'd, Of fancy's most terrific touch, The panic chill will not depart ;- Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart. No-pleasures, hopes, affections gone, The wretch may bear, and yet live on, Like things within the cold rock found Alive, when all's congeal'd around. But there's a blank repose in this, A calm stagnation, that were bliss To the keen, burning, harrowing pain, Now felt through all thy breast and brain That spasm of terror, mute, intense, Calm is the wave-heaven's brilliant lights, And ask no happier joy than seeing And the fresh, buoyant sense of being All's o'er-in rust your blades may lie: Ah! she could tell you-she, who leans Lies bleeding in that murderous strife. What bodes its solitary glare? Fix their last failing life-beam there. Its melancholy radiance sent; While Hafed, like a vision, stood Reveal'd before the burning pyre, Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire, Shrined in its own grand element! ""Tis he!"—the shuddering maid exclaims,— But, while she speaks, he's seen no more; High burst in air the funeral flames, And Iran's hopes and hers are o'er ! One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave- FAREWELL-farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea :) No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water, More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee. Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, Like the wind of the south o'er a summer lute blowing, And hush'd all its music and wither'd its frame! But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands, The happiest there, from their pastime returning, Her dark flowing hair for some festival day, Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept; With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath'd chamber We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept. We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head; We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling, And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. Farewell—farewell—until pity's sweet fountain Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They'll weep for the chieftain who died on that mountain, [wave. They'll weep for the maiden who sleeps in this THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS. THE harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise No more to chiefs and ladies bright The chord alone, that breaks at night, OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT. OFT, in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends, so link'd together, Like leaves in wintry weather; Who treads alone, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad memory brings the light Of other days around me. SACRED SONG. THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine; Of sunny brightness breaking through! HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED? HAS sorrow thy young days shaded, Has love to that soul so tender, Been like our Lagenian mine? Where sparkles of golden splendour All over the surface shine. But if in pursuit we go deeper, Allured by the gleam that shone, Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper, Like love, the bright ore is gone. Has hope, like the bird in the story If thus the sweet hours have fleeted, Each feeling that once was dear,— Come, child of misfortune! hither, I'll weep with thee tear for tear. OH NO! NOT EVEN WHEN FIRST WE LOVED. Он, no-not e'en when first we loved, Thy beauty then my senses moved, Has since been turn'd to reason's vow; And though I then might love thee more, Trust me, I love thee better now! Although my heart, in earlier youth, Might kindle with more wild desire; Believe me, it has gain'd in truth Much more than it has lost in fire. The flame now warms my inmost core That then but sparkled on my brow; And though I seem'd to love thee more, Yet, oh, I love thee better now!" CALEB C. COLTON. THE author of "Lacon" was educated at Cambridge, where, in 1804, being then in the twenty-fifth year of his age, he obtained a fellowship. He took orders, and was presented with the livings of Tiverton, Kew and Petersham. These, with his fellowship, produced a liberal income, but his necessities or eccentricities caused him to reside in an obscure garret, where he wrote the most celebrated of his works, "Lacon, or Many Things in Few Words." By this he acquired considerable reputation, and his disappearance soon after, on the murder of WEARE, a person with whom he was supposed to have had some gambling transactions, induced a rumour that he had been assassinated. He left England however only to avoid his creditors, and came to America. Here, under an assumed name, he remained two years, at the end of which time he went to France, where he continued to reside for the residue of his life. In Paris, he devoted himself to literature, gambling, and trade in pictures and wine. He wrote the celebrated letters in the London Morning Chronicle, signed O. P. Q.,* which attracted so much attention during the time of the Greek revolution, and several pamphlets on French politics and the state of Europe. He was deprived of his church livings for nonresidence, but is said to have more than supplied the loss with his cards and dice. He committed suicide, at Fontainebleau, in the summer of 1832. The habits of Mr. COLTON, in his most prosperous days, were peculiar. A friend who visited his lodgings in London, when he was in the zenith of his reputation, describes them as the most singular and ill-furnished apartments he had ever seen. Keeping no servant, he swept his own floors, and lighted his own fires. He had but a single chair fit for use, but his closet was always stored with wines and cigars of the finest qualities, and he received his guests therefore without a thought This signature was subsequently used by a letterwriter of inferior abilities. Mr. COLTON's correspondence ended we believe in 1831. of apologies for the meanness of his rooms. Notwithstanding his dissolute life, few men were ever more earnest and constant in their advocacy of virtue; and the eloquence and energy with which he delivered his public discourses, sometimes led his parishioners to think he had reformed his morals. On one occasion, he surprised his congregation by a sermon of extraordinary power, uttered with the most serious and impressive voice and gesture; but on leaving the pulpit, with gun in hand, he joined his dogs, and drove to the house of a sporting friend in the neighbourhood, to be ready for the next day's chase. "Lacon" is doubtless a work of great merit, but the germs of many of its ideas may be found in BACON and other authors, and some of its passages are commonplace in both thought and diction. Mr. COLTON's other productions are “ A Narrative of the Sampford Ghost," "Remarks on the Talents of Lord Byron and the Tendencies of Don Juan," poems entitled "Napoleon," "The Conflagration of Moscow," and "Hypocrisy;" and "Modern Antiquity, and other Lyrical Pieces," published after his death. They are very unequal, and are marked sometimes by a redundancy of epithets, at others by a condensation which renders them unintelligible, and nearly always by a straining after effect and antithesis. One of the finest of his pieces is that beginning "How long shall man's imprison'd spirit groan ?" which was written but a few weeks before he entered unbidden the presence of Him of whose laws he was so conspicuous a teacher and violator. Mr. COLTON's political writings are among the most powerful and original essays in the language, but they were on subjects of temporary interest, and are forgotten. No work of its kind ever attracted more universal or lasting regard than "Lacon;" but with a perversity of judgment not without parallel in the histories of men of genius, he regarded "Hypocrisy" as the most perfect and enduring of his productions. THE CONFLAGRATION OF MOSCOW. HER royal nest the Russian eagle fires, And to the wild recess-revenged-retires; Her talons unexpended lightnings arm, And high resentments all her courage warm. Tempt not, thou fiend of France! her arduous track; Ambition spurs thee on-defeat shall call thee back. False friends in rear, in front a stubborn foe, Thy caterer, famine,-and thy couch the snow: Then view that fiery cope with ghastly smile, "Tis thy ambition's grand funereal pile. Blaze on, ye gilded domes and turrets high, And let that fiend o'er flames and ruins reign; Then perish temple, palace, fort, or tower The sacrifice is made, the deed is done : Nurse every nerve, and plume thy ruffled wing; From pine-ploughed Baltic, to that ice-bound coast, While the white desert girds him like a shroud,- Now sinks the blood-red sun, eclipsed by light, Rage, elements! wreck, ravage all ye can, Wide and more wide, self-warn'd, without com- One blazing sea, one adamantine coast! |