ON THE BEING OF A GOD.

"There is a God" all nature cries:
A thousand tongues proclaim
His arm almighty, mind all-wise,
And bid each voice in chorus rise
To magnify his name.

Thy name great Nature's sire divine
Assiduous we adore ;

Rejecting godheads at whose shrine
Benighted nations blood and wine
In vain libations pour.

Yon countless worlds in boundless space,
Myriads of miles each hour

Their mighty orbs as curious trace,
As the blue circle studs the face
Of that enamelled flower.

But, Thou, too, madest that floweret gay
To glitter in the dawn;

The hand that fired the lamps of day,
The blazing comet launch'd away,

Painted the velvet lawn.

"As falls a sparrow to the ground,
Obedient to thy will;"

By the same law those globes wheel round,
Each drawing each, yet all still found

In one eternal system bound

One order to fulfil.

LORD BROUGHAM.

SEVILLE.

"Awake, ye Sons of Spain! awake! advance!
Lo Chivalry your ancient Goddess calls,
But wields not as of old her thirsty lance.'

I wandered 'mid the motley crowds
In the boasted Marvel's walls;
And idleness, deceit and sloth

Defiled her ancient Halls.

And I thought of the glorious days gone by,
And of Spain's chivalric wreath :

I asked where the glory had vanished now,
And there arose the answer DEATH.

I wandered 'mid the motley throng,

In the boasted Marvel's walls;

And I thought of the time when the turban'd hosts
Possessed the Alcazar's Halls;

And I spake, does no trace save this remain
Of the Moorish pride and faith?
Have the signs and the tokens departed all ?—
And there arose the answer DEATH.

I wandered 'mid the lazy crowds,

In the boasted Marvel's walls,

With minds as dull as the smoke they drew
Beneath her ancient Halls ;

And I said, are those gallant spirits gone
That lived but in glory's breath?
Oh! where are the glorious sons of Spain?
And there arose the answer-DEATH.

I turned from amid the lounging crowds
And left the Marvel's walls,

And I wandered the only living thing
In the Mausoleum's Halls;

And a voice as I pass'd came o'er my soul
With a low but chilling breath,

Thou musest now 'mid the best of Spain,
For these are the realms of DEATH.

THE CONVICT.

The glory of evening was spread through the west,
On the slope of a mountain I stood,

While the joy that precedes the calm season of rest,
Rang loud through the meadow and wood.

"And must we then part from a dwelling so fair,"
In the pain of my spirit I said;

And, with a deep sadness, I turned to repair
To the cell where the convict is laid.

The thick-ribbed walls that o'er-shadow the gate,
Resound and the dungeons unfold:

I pause, and at length through the glimmering grate
That outcast of pity behold.

His black matted head on his shoulder is bent,
And deep is the sigh of his breath,
And with stedfast dejection his eyes are intent
On the fetters that link him to death.
"Tis sorrow enough on that visage to gaze,
That body dismissed from his care;

But my fancy has pierced to his heart, and pourtrays
More terrible images there.

His bones are consumed and his life-blood is dried

With wishes the past to undo;

And his crime, through the pains that o'erwhelm him descried, Still blackens and grows on the view.

When from the dark synod, or blood-reeking field,

To his chamber the monarch is led;

All soothers of sense their soft virtue shall yield,
And quietness pillows his head.

But if grief self-consumed in oblivion would doze,
And conscience her tortures appease;
'Mid tumult and uproar this man must repose

In the comfortless vault of disease.

When his fetters at night have so pressed on his limbs,
That the weight can no longer be borne;

If while a half-slumber his memory bedims,
The wretch on his pallet should turn ;

While the gaol mastiff howls at the dull clanking chain,
From the roots of his hair there shall start

A thousand sharp punctures of cold sweating pain,
And terror shall leap at his heart.

But now he half raises his deep sunken eye,
And the motion unsettles a tear;
The silence of sorrow it seems to supply,

And asks me for why I am here.

"Poor victim! no idle intruder has stood

With o'erweening complaisance our state to compare, But one whose first wish is the wish to be good,

Is come as a brother thy sorrows to share.

"At thy name, though Compassion her nature resign, Though in virtue's proud mouth thy report be a stain, My care, if the arm of the mighty were mine,

Should place thee where yet thou might'st blossom again." WORDSWORTH.