Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands,
With nought but the sea-star to light up her tomb.

And still, when the merry date-season is burning,
And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old,
The happiest there, from their pastime returning,

At sunset will weep when thy story is told.

The young village-maid, when with flowers she dresses
Her dark flowing hair for some festival day,
Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses,
She mournfully turns from the mirror away.

Nor shall Iran, beloved of her Hero! forget thee,
Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start;
Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee,
Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart.

Farewell! be it ours to embellish thy pillow

With everything beauteous that grows in the deep; Each flower of the rock, and each gem of the billow, Shall sweeten thy bed, and illumine thy sleep.

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling,
And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head;
We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling,
And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.

Farewell! farewell! until Pity's sweet fountain

Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They'll weep for the chieftain who died on that mountain; They'll weep for the maiden who sleeps in this wave.

THOMAS MOORE.

The Song of the Cossack.

COMER

OME, rouse thee up, my gallant horse,
And bear thy rider on!

The comrade thou, and the friend, I trow,
Of the dweller on the Don.

Pillage and death have spread their wings!
'Tis the hour to hie thee forth,
And with thy hoofs an echo wake
To the trumpets of the North !
Nor gems nor gold do men behold
Upon thy saddle-tree ;

But earth affords the wealth of lords,

For thy master and for thee.

Then fiercely neigh, my charger gray—

O! thy chest is broad and ample;

And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, And the pride of her heroes trample !

Europe is weak—she hath grown old—
Her bulwarks are laid low;

She is loath to hear the blast of war-
She shrinketh from a foe.

Come, in our turn let us sojourn

In her goodly haunts of joy,

In her pillared porch to wave the torch,
And her palaces destroy.

Proud as when first thou slak'dst thy thirst
In the flow of conquered Seine,

Aye shalt thou lave within that wave
Thy blood-red flanks again.

Then fiercely neigh, my gallant gray—

O! thy chest is strong and ample ;

And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France,
And the pride of her heroes trample !

Kings are beleaguered on their thrones
By their own vassal crew;

And in their den quake noblemen,

And priests are bearded too;

And loud they yelp for the Cossack's help,

To keep their bondsmen down;

And they think it meet while they kiss our feet,
To wear a tyrant's crown!

The sceptre now to my lance shall bow,

And the crosier, and the cross;

All shall bend alike when I lift my pike,
And aloft THAT SCEPTRE toss !
Then proudly neigh, my gallant gray—
O! thy chest is broad and ample ;

And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, And the pride of her heroes trample!

In a night of storm I have seen a form!
And the figure was a GIANT,

And his eye was bent on the Cossack's tent,

And his look was all defiant :

Kingly his crest-and toward the west

With his battle-axe he pointed;

And the form I saw was Attila !

Of this earth the scourge anointed.

From the Cossack's camp let the horseman's tramp

The coming crash announce;

Let the vulture whet his beak sharp-set,

On the carrion field to pounce.

And proudly neigh, my charger gray-
O! thy chest is broad and ample;

And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France,
And the pride of her heroes trample!

What boots old Europe's boasted fame,
On which she builds reliance,

When the North shall launch its avalanche
On her works of art and science?

Hath she not wept her cities swept
By our hordes of swarming horses?

And tower and arch crushed in the march

Of our barbarian courses?

Can we not wield our father's shield?

The same war-hatchet handle?

Do our blades want length, or the reapers strength,

For the harvest of the Vandal?

Then proudly neigh, my gallant gray—

For thy chest is strong and ample;

And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, And the pride of her heroes trample!

Paraphrased by WILLIAM MAGINN.

BERANGER.

The Prisoner of Chillon.
TERNAL spirit of the chainless mind!

E1

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art,
For there thy habitation is the heart-
The heart which love of thee alone can bind;
And when thy sons to fetters are consigned—

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom— Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon thy prison is a holy place,

And thy sad floor an altar; for 'twas trodUntil his very steps have left a trace

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sodBy Bonnivard! may none those marks efface, For they appeal from tyranny to God.

I.

My hair is gray, but not with years,

Nor grew it white

In a single night,

As men's have grown from sudden fears.

My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,

But rusted with a vile repose; For they have been a dungeon's spoil, And mine has been the fate of those To whom the goodly earth and air Are banned, and barred-forbidden fare. But this was for my father's faith I suffered chains and courted death; That father perished at the stake For tenets he would not forsake; And for the same his lineal race In darkness found a dwelling-place. We were seven-who now are one, Six in youth, and one in age, Finished as they had begun,

Proud of Persecution's rage:

One in fire, and two in field,
Their belief with blood have sealed!
Dying as their father died,

For the God their foes denied:

Three were in a dungeon cast,

Of whom this wreck is left the last.

II.

There are seven pillars of Gothic mould,
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old ;
There are seven columns, massy and gray,
Dim with a dull imprisoned ray—
A sunbeam which hath lost its way,
And through the crevice and the cleft
Of the thick wall is fallen and left-
Creeping o'er the floor so damp,
Like a marsh's meteor lamp:
And in each pillar there is a ring,

And in each ring there is a chain;
That iron is a cankering thing,

For in these limbs its teeth remain, With marks that will not wear away Till I have done with this new day,