WHAT MAKES A KING.* 'Tis not wealth that makes a king, Nor a brow that's bound with gold, The King is he, who void of fear, What shall move his placid might? Who lapp'd in silken luxury Feed, to the full, their lordly will ;- *This beautiful piece is a translation of part of a Chorus in Seneca's Thyestes. No need has he of vulgar force, No:-to fear not earthly thing, LEIGH HUNT'S Feast of the Poets. THE GRAVE OF COLUMBUS. Silence, solemn, awful, deep, From lofty dome, and arch, and aisle remote, Some ardent youth, perhaps ere from his home With feelings keenly touch'd,with heart of flame; While fitful gusts rave like his clam'rous band, And burns, and sighs, and weeps to be what he has been. O! who shall lightly say that fame The young, from slothful couch will start, O! who shall lightly say that fame O! who shall lightly say that fame A twinkling speck, but fix'd and bright, For is there one who musing o'er the grave No; saith the gen'rous heart, and proudly swells, "Tho' his cered corse lies here, with God his spirit dwells." MRS. JOANNA BAILLIE. |