And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat :

And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected PITY at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied;

Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien,

While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, JEALOUSY, to nought were fix'd,
Sad proof of thy distressful state,

Of diff'ring themes the veering song was mix'd,
And now it courted Love, now raving called on
Hate.

With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pale MELANCHOLY sat retir'd,

And from her wild sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'd through the mellow Horn her pensive soul: And dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound :

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole;

Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay,
Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace, and lonely musing,

In hollow murmurs died away.

But O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!

When CHEERFULNESS, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known : The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-eyed

queen,

Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,

And Sport leap'd up, and seiz'd his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial;

He with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand address'd, But soon he saw the brisk awak'ning viol,

Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain,

They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
Amidst the festal-sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing,

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round, Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound, And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

COLLINS.

CASABIANCA.

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled;

The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, tho' child-like, form.

The flames roll'd on-he would not go
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He call'd aloud, "Say, father, say,
If yet my task is done?"

He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

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Speak, father!" once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone?

And "but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames roll'd on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in his waving hair

And look'd from that lone post of death In still but brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,

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My father, must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, thro' sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And stream'd above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound

The boy-oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds, that far around

With fragments strew'd the sea!

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part—
But the noblest thing which perished there,
Was that young faithful heart!

MRS. HEMANS.

NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL TO FRANCE.

Farewell to the land, where the gloom of my glory Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name; She abandons me now, but the page of her story, The brightest or blackest, is fill'd with my fame.

I have warr'd with a world which vanquish'd me only When the meteor of conquest allur'd me too far, I have cop'd with the nations which dread me thus lonely,

The last single captive to millions in war!

Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crown'd

me,

I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, But thy weakness decrees, I should leave as I found

thee,

Decay'd in thy glory and sunk in thy worth. Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted

In strife with the storm, when their battles were

won,

Then the eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted,

Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun!

Farewell to thee, France! but when Liberty rallies,

Once more in thy regions, remember me thenThe violet still grows in the depths of thy valleys, Tho' wither'd, thy tears will unfold it again. Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us,

And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voiceThere are links which must break in the chain that has bound us,

Then turn thee, and call on the chief of thy choice.

BYRON.