WHAT MAKES A KING.*

'Tis not wealth that makes a king,
Nor the purples' colouring,

Nor a brow that's bound with gold,
Nor gates on mighty hinges roll'd.

The King is he, who void of fear,
Looks abroad with bosom clear;
Who can tread ambition down,
Nor be sway'd by smile or frown;
Nor for all the treasure cares
That mine conceals or harvest wears,
Or that golden sands deliver,
Bosom'd in a glassy river.

What shall move his placid might?
Not the head-long thunder-light,
Nor the storm that rushes out
To snatch the shivering waves about,
Nor all the shapes of slaughter's trade,
With forward lance, or fiery blade.
Safe with wisdom for his crown,
He looks on all things calmly down;
He welcomes fate, when fate is near,
Nor taunts his dying breath with fear.
Grant that all the kings assemble,
At whose head the Scythians tremble ;-
Grant that in the train be they
Whom the Red-Sea shores obey,
Where the gems and chrystal caves
Sparkle up thro' purple waves;
Bring with these the Caspian stout,
Who scorns to shut th' invader out;
And the daring race that tread
The rocking of the Danube's bed;
With those again where'er they be,

Who lapp'd in silken luxury

Feed, to the full, their lordly will ;-
The noble mind is monarch still.

*This beautiful piece is a translation of part of a Chorus in Seneca's Thyestes.

No need has he of vulgar force,
Armour or arms or chested horse,
Nor all the idle darts that light
From Parthian in his feigned flight,
Nor whirling rocks from engines thrown
That come to shake whole cities down.

No:-to fear not earthly thing,
This it is that makes the king,
And all of us whoe'er we be,
May carve us out this royalty.

LEIGH HUNT'S Feast of the Poets.

THE GRAVE OF COLUMBUS.

Silence, solemn, awful, deep,
Doth in that hall of death her empire keep;
Save when at times the hollow pavement, smote
By solitary wand'rer's foot, amain

From lofty dome, and arch, and aisle remote,
A circling loud response receives again.
The stranger starts to hear the growing sound,
And sees the blazon'd trophies waving near ;-
"Ha! tread my feet so near that sacred ground!
He stops and bows his head :-" Columbus resteth here!"

Some ardent youth, perhaps ere from his home
He launch his vent'rous bark, will hither come,
Read fondly o'er and o'er his graven name

With feelings keenly touch'd,with heart of flame;
Till, wrapp'd in fancy's wild delusive dream,
Times past, and long forgotten, present seem,
To his charm'd ear, the east-wind rising shrill,
Seems through the Hero's shroud to whistle still.
The clock's deep pendulum swinging, through the blast
Sounds like the rocking of his lofty mast;

While fitful gusts rave like his clam'rous band,
Mix'd with the accents of his high command.
Slowly the stripling quits the pensive scene,

And burns, and sighs, and weeps to be what he has been.

O! who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name !
Whilst in that sound there is a charm
The nerves to brace, the heart to warm,
As, thinking of the mighty dead,

The young, from slothful couch will start,
And vow, with lifted hands outspread,
Like them to act a noble part?

O! who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name!
When but for those, our mighty dead,
All ages past a blank would be,
Sunk in oblivion's murky bed,-
A desert bare, a shipless sea?
They are the distant objects seen,-
The lofty marks of what hath been.

O! who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name!
When mem'ry of the mighty dead
To earth-worn pilgrim's wistful eye
The brightest rays of cheering shed,
That point to immortality?

A twinkling speck, but fix'd and bright,
To guide us through the dreary night,
Each hero shines and lures the soul
To gain the distant, happy goal.

For is there one who musing o'er the grave
Where lies interr'd the good, the wise, the brave,
Can poorly think beneath the mould'ring heap,
That noble being shall for ever sleep?

No; saith the gen'rous heart, and proudly swells,

"Tho' his cered corse lies here, with God his spirit dwells." MRS. JOANNA BAILLIE.