Beauteous as visions seen in dreamy sleep,
By holy maid on Delphi's haunted steep,
Mid the dim twilight of the laurel grove-
'Too fair to worship, too divine to love.

Yet on that form in wild delirious trance,
With more than reverence gaz'd the Maid of France,
Day after day the love sick dreamer stood,
With him alone, nor thought it solitude.
To cherish grief-her last, her dearest care,
Her one fond hope-to perish of despair.
Oft as the shifting light her sight beguil'd
Blushing she shrunk and thought the marble smil'd;
Oft breathless listning heard, or seem'd to hear
A voice of music melt upon her ear,
Slowly she waned-and cold and senseless grown,
Clos'd her dim eyes-herself benumb'd to stone;
Yet love in death, a sickly strength supply'd,
Once more she gazed-then feebly smiled and died,

The Servian Youth to a Traveller.

Oh leave me ! leave me !

My wants are supplied and my steed is the fleetest
That dwells in our vale, and my love is the sweetest,
The sweetest of maidens, O leave me !
You do not, you cannot deceive me.

You say there are brighter

And richer domains than the lands of our tillage,
And cities to which our Belgrade is a village;
go to my love and invite her,

But

Will your laws and your cities delight her?

O no! she will tell thee

That the place of our birth of all places the dearest,

That the heart curls its tendrils round that which is nearest ;
She will smile at the tales of the wealthy,
And to shame and to silence compel thee.

Then go! thou false rover,

We will cling to the scenes which our infancy clung to,

We will sing the old songs which our fathers have sung too. To our country be as true as a lover,

Till its green sod our ashes shall cover,

ODE ON GREECE.—Byron.

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece,
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where the arts of war and peace,—
Where Delos rose and Phoebus
sprung
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.

grew

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest."

The Mountains look on Marathon-
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,

I dream'd that Greece might still be free
For standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sate on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,

And men in nations; all were his !
He counted them at break of day-
And when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now—

The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame,

Though link'd among a fetter'd race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,

Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear

Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush ?-Our fathers bled,
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three
To make a new Thermopyla !

What, silent still? and silent all?

Ah! no;-the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall,

And answer, "Let one living head, But one arise, we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumb,

In vain-in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! Hark! rising to the ignoble callHow answers each bold bacchanal !

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,

Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letter Cadmus gaveThink ye he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!

We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon's song divine:

He served but served Polycrates~~
A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least our countrymen.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks

They have a king who buys and sells ; In native swords, and native ranks,

The only hope of courage dwells; But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep

Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweef ;

There swan-like, let me sing and die ! A land of slaves shall ne'er be mineDash down yon cup of Samian wine!

SCIENCE AND RELIGION.-Ray.

Wide o'er the world was darkness spread,
And nations groped amid the gloom,
Till heavenly science rose-and shed

A light that flashed beyond the tomb,
A light that burns with constant blaze,
And cheers creation with its rays.

RELIGION Comes-whose beauteous form

Shines through her garments pure and white ; So silvery clouds before a storm,

Float round the radiant queen of night, The kindred stars she lights with grace, And shares a smile from every face.

RELIGION

;

SCIENCE-heaven-born twins,
To mercy, faith, and peace allied
One speaks atonement for our sins,
The other is our lamp and guide
Through the dark wilderness of thought,
Where Truth is found, if truly sought.

Pride-impious and destructive fiend,
A severance of the two has aimed,

With boastful phalanx intervened,
And right supreme for Science claimed.
But mild Religion showed her chart,
And proved they were not born to part.

Now hand in hand, their walk is seen,

Through this high-favoured clime of ours
In vestments bright-with garlands green,
As victors o'er the bigot's powers;
And when the "crush of worlds" shall come,
A seraph's wing shall waft them home.

To their own longed-for native skies,

With all their ardent votaries here,
Where Science taught the soul to rise,

And deck'd her for a brighter sphere,
And where Religion first began
To plant her Paradise in man,

Indignant Sentiments on National Prejudice, Hatred, and on Slavery.-Cowper.

Oh! for a lodge in some vast wilderness,
Some boundless contiguity of shade,
Where rumour of oppression and deceit,
Of unsuccessful or successful war,

Might never reach me more! My ear is pain'd,
My soul is sick, with every day's report
Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fill'd
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart;
It does not feel for man. The nat❜ral bond
Of brotherhood is sever'd, as the flax
That falls asunder at the touch of fire.

He finds his fellow guilty of a skin
Not coloured like his own; and having power
T'enforce the wrong for such a worthy cause,
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
Lands intersected by a narrow frith,
Abhor each other. Mountains interpos'd
Make enemies of nations, who had else,
Like kindred drops, been mingled into one.