'Tis eve those savage shouts are o'er,
That shriek hath died away;
And far from Egypt's fatal shore,

Her bark pursues its way;
What is to her the fitful breeze,
The conflict stern of skies and seas,
To the calm of yonder bay ?-
She'd rather seek the whirlpool's breast
Than on its blood-stained waters rest!
What recks it where the casket lies,
When the gem it shrined is gone,-
Who bids the funeral pile arise

When the deathless soul is flown?
And yet may honours, duly paid,
Truth's tears appease a warrior's shade,
For a martyr's wrongs atone;

Fall'n chief! those offerings-half divine—
That incense of the heart is thine!

Though of all the minions of thy power,
Who once meet homage paid thee,
Who fawned on thee in fortune's hour,
And when it waned betrayed thee,-
Not one court parasite is near
To mourn above the bloody bier,

Where traitor hands have layed thee,
Two humbler friends with duteous love,
Now bend thy mangled form above.
And, gathering from a gasping wave
The relics of a bark,

Wreck'd like the glories of the brave,
When fortune's clouds grow dark;
They spread them for thy funeral pile-
Then breathing vengeance deep the while,
Kindle the glowing spark ;--
And flames as bright as truth arise,
To grace great Pompey's obsequies!

THE DYING GIRL TO HER MOTHER.

Oh! weep not, mother, though thy child
Too soon from thee must part;
Oh! let not useless sorrow break
Thy fond-thy doting heart!
I have no fear, no dread of death
Nor shrink from its cold sleep;
I know no terror- feel no pain
But when I see thee weep.

Although but few have been my years,
Which now are closing fast,

I feel no wish to tarry here,

Nor sigh for what, is past.
I leave this weary world of woe,

More lasting joys to reap;

Then wherefore grieve to lose thy child,-
Oh, wherefore, mother weep?

To leave thee, whom I ever loved-
To say farewell to thee,—

To meet thy last fond gaze,-to hear
Thy fervent prayer for me,
Would move my dying heart, and to
My ebbing soul sink deep;
Yet could I patiently bear this,
But cannot see thee weep.

Then weep not, mother, though thy child
Too soon from thee must part;
Oh, let not useless sorrow break
Thy fond-thy doting heart!
E'n now I feel the chill of death,-
I strive to breathe 'tis vain!
Oh, mother!-one embrace!-I die! -
We part to meet again!

SCENE OF MISERY.

A dreadful winter came, each day severe, Misty when mild, and icy cold when clear; And still the humble dealer took his load, Returning slow, and shiv'ring on the road:

The lady, still relentless, saw him come,
And said, 'I wonder, has the wretch a home?'
A hut! a hovel!' Then his fate appears
To suit his crime.'- Yes, lady, not his years;
No! nor his sufferings, nor that form decayed :'-
• Well! let the parish give its paupers aid:

You must the vileness of his acts allow ;'

And you, dear lady, that he feels it now :' When such dissemblers on their deeds reflect, Can they the pity they refused expect? He that doth evil, evil shall he dread!' 'The snow,' quoth Susan, 'falls upon his bed,It blows beside the thatch-it melts upon his head :'— "Tis weakness, child, for grieving guilt to feel; ''Yes, but he never sees a wholesome meal; Through his bare dress appears his shrivell'd skin, And ill he fares without, and worse within : With that weak body, lame, diseased, and slow, What cold, pain, peril, must the sufferer know!' • Think on his crime.'- Yes, sure, 'twas very wrong; But look (God bless him!) how he gropes along!'

Brought me to shame.'-' Oh! Yes, I know it all-
What cutting blast! and he can scarcely crawl;
He freezes as he moves-he dies! if he should fall:
With cruel fierceness drives this icy sleet,-
And must a Christian perish in the street,

In sight of Christians?—There! at last he lies;
Nor unsupported can he ever rise;

He cannot live.' But is he fit to die?'

Here Susan softly mutter'd a reply,

Look'd round the room-said something of its state, Dives the rich, and Lazarus at his gate;

And then aloud—' In pity do behold

The man affrighten'd, weeping, trembling, cold:
Oh! how these flakes of snow their entrance win
Through the poor rags, and keep the frost within ;
His very heart seems frozen as he goes
Leading that starved companion of his woes :
He tried to pray-his lips I saw them move,
And he so turn'd his piteous looks above;
But the fierce wind the willing heart opposed,
And, ere he spoke, the lips in misery closed:

Poor suffering object! yes, for ease you pray'd,
And God will hear he only, I'm afraid.'

'Peace! Susan, peace! pain ever follows sin!'
Ah! then, thought Susan, when will ours begin?
When reach'd his home, to what a cheerless fire
And chilling bed will those cold limbs retire !
Yet ragged, wretched as it is, that bed
Takes half the space of his contracted shed;
I saw the thorns beside the narrow gate,
With straw collected in a putrid state :

There will he, kneeling, strive the fire to raise,
And that will warm him rather than the blaze;
The sullen, smoky blaze, that cannot last
One moment after his attempt is past.
And I so warmly, and so purely laid,
To sink to rest—indeed, I am afraid!'-

Know you his conduct? Yes, indeed, I know,
And how he wanders in the wind and snow;
Safe in our rooms the threat'ning storm we hear,
But he feels strongly what we faintly fear!
‹ Wilful was rich, and he the storm defied;
Wilful is poor, and must the storm abide ;'
Said the stern lady, "Tis in vain to feel;
Go and prepare the chicken for our meal.'

CRABBE.

PERPETUAL ADORATION.

The turf shall be my fragrant shrine-
My temple, Lord! that arch of thine-
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my frequent prayers.
My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murmuring homeward to their caves;
Or when the stillness of the sea,
Even more than music breathes of Thee!
I'll seek by day some glade unknown,
All light and silence like thy throne;
And the pale stars shall be at night,
The only eyes that watch my rite.

Thy heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read in words of flame,
The glories of thy wondrous name.
I'll read thy anger in the rack,

That clouds awhile the day-beams track;
Thy mercy in the azure hue

Of sunny brightness breaking through.
There's nothing bright above, below,
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light my soul can see
Some feature of thy Deity!

There's nothing dark below, above,
But in its gloom I trace thy love,
And meekly wait the moment when
Thy truth shall turn all bright again.

MOORE.

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP.

Yes, we shall meet again,

When this world's strife is over;
And where comes not care or pain,
A brighter land discover.

I will not think, in lasting night,
Earth's love and friendship dies,
It lives again serenely bright,
In worlds beyond the skies.

I will not think the grave hath power
To dim this heart's undying love,-
Oh! may
I still in death's dark hour,

Its lasting fondness prove.

Immortal sure some feelings are ;

Oh! not of earth the pure devotion,
Which lives in one fond earthly care,
And that-pure Friendship's soft emotion.
For brightest this wide world appears,
When far each selfish care is driven;

Soft Pity! dry not yet thy tears—

They make dark earth resemble heaven.