Sweet are the links that bind us to our kind,
Meek, but unyielding, felt, but undefined;
Sweet is the love of brethren, sweet the joy
Of a young mother in her cradled toy,
And sweet is childhood's deep and earnest glow
Of reverence for a father's head of snow!
Sweeter than all, ere our young hopes depart,
The quickening throb of an impassion'd heart,
Beating in silence, eloquently still,
For one loved soul that answers to its thrill.
But where thy smile, Religion, hath not shone,
The chain is riven, and the charm is gone,
And, unawakened by thy wondrous spell,
The Feelings slumber in their silent cell.
Hush'd is the voice of Labor and of Mirth,
The light of day is sinking from the earth,
And Evening mantles in her dewy calm
The couch of one who cannot heed its balm.'
Lo! where the Chieftain on his matted bed
Leans the faint form, and hangs the feverish head;
There is no lustre in his wandering eye,
His forehead hath no show of majesty,
His gasping lip, too weak for wail or prayer,
Scarce stirs the breeze, and leaves no echo there,
And his strong arm, so nobly wont to rear
The feather'd target, or the ashen spear,
Drops powerless and cold! the pang of death
Locks the set teeth, and chokes the struggling breath;
And the last glimmering of departing day
Lingers around to herald life away.
Is there no duteous youth to sprinkle now
One drop of water on his lip and brow?
No dark-eyed maid to bring with soundless foot
The lulling potion, or the healing root?
No tender look to meet his wandering gaze?
No tone of fondness, heard in happier days,
To soothe the terrors of the Spirit's flight,
And speak of mercy and of hope to-night?
'This sketch of the death of a New Zealander, and of the superstition which prevents the offering of any consolation or assistance under the idea that a sick man is under the immediate influence of the Deity, is taken from the narrative of the death of Duaterra, a friendly chieftain, recorded by Mr. Nicholas, Vol. ii. p. 181.
All love, all leave him !—terrible and slow
Along the crowd the whisper'd murmurs grow :
"The hand of Heaven is on him! is it our's
To check the fleeting of his number'd hours?
Oh not to us, oh not to us is given
To read the Book, or thwart the will of Heaven!
Away, away!' and each familiar face
Recoils in horror from his sad embrace;
The turf on which he lies is hallow'd ground,
The sullen Priest stalks gloomily around,
And shuddering friends, that dare not soothe or save,
Hear the last groan and dig the destined grave.
The frantic widow folds upon her breast
Her glittering trinkets, and her gorgeous vest,
Circles her neck with many a mystic charm,
Clasps the rich bracelet on her desperate arm,
Binds her black hair, and stains her eye-lid's fringe
With the jet lustre of the Henow's tinge;
Then on the spot where those dear ashes lie,
In bigot transport sits her down to die.
Her swarthy brothers mark the wasted cheek,
The straining eye-ball, and the stifled shriek,
And sing the praises of her deathless name,
As the last flutter racks her tortured frame.
They sleep together; o'er the natural tomb
The lichen'd pine rears up its form of gloom,
And lorn acacias shed their shadow gray,
Bloomless and leafless, o'er the buried clay.
And often there, when, calmly, coldly bright,
The midnight Moon flings down her ghastly light,
With solemn murmur, and with silent tread,
The dance is order'd, and the verse is said,
And sights of wonder, sounds of spectral fear
Scare the quick glance and chill the startled ear.
Yet direr visions e'en than these remain;
A fiercer guiltiness, a fouler stain!
Oh! who shall sing the scene of savage strife,
Where Hatred glories in the waste of life?
The hurried march, the looks of grim delight,
The yell, the rush, the slaughter, and the flight,
The arms unwearied in the cruel toil,
The hoarded vengeance and the rifled spoil,
And, last of all, the revel in the wood,
The feast of death, the banqueting of blood,
VOL. XXVIII.
When the wild warrior gazes on his foe
Convulsed beneath him in his painful throe,
And lifts the knife, and kneels him down to drain
The purple current from the quivering vein?
Cease, cease the tale; and let the Ocean's roll
Shut the dark horror from my wilder'd soul !
And are there none to succour? none to speed
A fairer feeling and a holier creed?
Alas! for this, upon the Ocean blue,
Lamented Cook, thy pennon hither flew;
For this, undaunted o'er the raging brine,
The venturous Frank upheld his Saviour's sign.
Unhappy Chief! while Fancy thus surveys
The scatter'd islets, and the sparkling bays,
Beneath whose cloudless sky and gorgeous sun
Thy life was ended, and thy voyage done,
In shadowy mist thy form appears to glide,
Haunting the grove, or floating on the tide;
Oh! there was grief for thee, and bitter tears,
And racking doubts through long and joyless years;
And tender tongues that babbled of the theme,
And lonely hearts that doated on the dream.
Pale Memory deem'd she saw thy cherish'd form
Snatch'd from the foe, or rescued from the storm;
And faithful Love, unfailing and untired,
Clung to each hope, and sigh'd as each expired.
On the bleak desert, or the tombless sea,
No prayer was said, no requiem sung for thee;
Affection knows not, whether o'er thy grave
The Ocean murmur, or the willow wave;
But still the beacon of thy sacred name
Lights ardent souls to Virtue and to Fame;
Still Science mourns thee, and the grateful Muse
Wreathes the green cypress for her own Peyrouse.
But not thy death shall mar the gracious plan,
Nor check the task thy pious toil began;
O'er the wide waters of the bounding main
The Book of Life must win its way again,
And, in the regions by thy fate endear'd,
The Cross be lifted, and the Altar rear'd.
'From the coast of Australasia the last despatches of La Peyrouse were dated. Vid. Quarterly Review for Feb. 1810.
With furrow'd brow, and cheek serenely fair,
The calm wind wandering o'er his silver hair,
His arm uplifted, and his moisten'd eye
Fix'd in deep rapture on the golden sky,—
Upon the shore, through many a billow driven,
He kneels at last, the Messenger of Heaven!
Long years, that rank the mighty with the weak,
Have dimm'd the flush upon his faded cheek,
And many a dew, and many a noxious damp,
The daily labor, and the nightly lamp,
Have reft away, for ever reft, from him,
The liquid accent, and the buoyant limb:
Yet still within him aspirations swell
Which time corrupts not, sorrow cannot quell-
The changeless Zeal, which on, from land to land,
Speeds the faint foot, and nerves the wither'd hand,
And the mild Charity, which, day by day,
Weeps every wound and every stain away,
Rears the young bud on every blighted stem,
And longs to comfort, where she must condemn.
With these, through storms, and bitterness, and wrath,
In peace and power he holds his onward path,
Curbs the fierce soul, and sheathes the murderous steel,
And calms the passions he hath ceased to feel.
Yes! he hath triumph'd !-while his lips relate
The sacred story of his Saviour's fate,
While to the search of that tumultuous horde
He opens wide the Everlasting Word,
And bids the Soul drink deep of Wisdom there,
In fond devotion, and in fervent prayer,
In speechless awe the wonder-stricken throng
Check their rude feasting and their barbarous song:
Around his steps the gathering myriads crowd,
The chief, the slave, the timid and the proud;
Of various features, and of various dress,
Like their own forest-leaves, confused and numberless.
Where shall your temples, where your worship be,
Gods of the air, and Rulers of the sea?
In the glad dawning of a kinder light,
Your blind adorer quits your gloomy rite,
And kneels in gladness on his native plain,
A happier votary at a holier fane.
Beautiful Land! farewell!-when toil and strife, And all the sighs, and all the sins of life
Shall come about me, when the light of Truth
Shall scatter the bright mists that dazzled youth,
And Memory muse in sadness on the past,
And mourn for pleasures far too sweet to last,
How often shall I long for some green spot,
Where, not remembering, and remember'd not,
With no false verse to deck my lying bust,
With no fond tear to vex my mouldering dust,
This busy brain may find its grassy shrine,
And sleep, untroubled, in a shade like thine!
W. M. PRAED,
DE PARTICULIS ΟΠΩΣ ΕΤ ΟΠΩΣ ΜΗ.
[Vid. Miscell. Critica. Vol. 1. P. 1.]
Νῦν δ ̓ ἡνίκ ̓ οὐκ ἔτ ̓ ἔστιν εἰς σὲ δὴ βλέπω,
ὅπως τὸν αὐτόχειρα πατρώου φόνου
ξὺν τῇδ' ἀδελφῇ μὴ κατοκνήσεις κτανεῖν
Αἴγισθον.
Ad Sophocl. Electr. 942 sq. Herm. ITA Brunckium sequuti scripserunt Erfurdtius, Schæferus, Hermannus, quamquam optimi libri Mss. et edd. veteres in conjunctivo aoristi primi xatoxvýσng consentient. Quanto quidem amore ille amplexus sit Davesii regulam, ab omnibus fere recentioribus grammaticis et criticis canonis loco receptam, ex qua conjunctiones caussales όπως et ὅπως μὴ, quum præsentis, aoristi primi passivi et aoristi secundi conjunctivo jungantur, ab usu aoristi primi activi et medii recedant, et pro iis indicativi futurum requirant (cf. Matth. gr.gr. p. 738.), illud inquam Brunckii studium ex eo notissimum est, quod de ratione hujus præcepti eadem fere novies, et quod excurrit, repetere et ejus ipsi caussa permultos tragicorum et Aristophanis locos corrigere ratum habebat (v. Br. ad Æsch. Prom. 155. ad Soph. Aj. 556. Ed. Tyr. 1392. Eurip. Med. 325. Aristoph. Lys. 384. 1305. Ran, 378. 1365. Conc. 295.) Habebant igitur emendandi cupidi, quo niterentur, ubi contra præstantissimorum codicum consensum conjunctivum aoristi primi in futuri indicativum mutabant. Quod nuperrime Lo
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