Page images
PDF
EPUB

Thou wert not made thro' wintry years

To wither, till the heart grows old;
I weep until it hath no tears,

To feel the blood run cold.
Who would not wish like thee to die,

And leave a deathless name,
To live like thee while life was joy,

And fall when death was fame?

John Malcolm, Esq~

THE LAMENTATION OF MARY QUEEN OF

SCOTS.

*

I sigh, and lament me in vain,

These walls can but echo my moan;

Alas! it increases my pain,

To think of the days that are gone.

Through the grates of my prison I see

The birds as they wanton in air;
My heart, how it pants to be free,

My looks they are wild with despair.

Ye roofs, where cold damps and dismay

With silence and solitude dwell;
How comfortless passes the day,

How sad tolls the evening bell!

The owls from the battlements cry,
Hollow winds seem to murmur around,

'O Mary prepare thee to die!'
My blood it runs cold at the sound.

Unchanged by the rigours of fate,

I burn with contempt for my foes;
Though fortune has clouded my state,

This hope shall enlighten its close.

False woman! in ages to come

Thy malice detested shall be;
And when we are cold in the tomb,

The heart still shall sorrow for me.

Mrs Hunter.

[ocr errors]

EXTRACT FROM THE BEDOUINS.

The firefly's lamp is on the air,
The wild gazelle is in his lair,
And through the hush with stealthy foot
The ounce begins his noiseless route;
The alligator's habe-like cry,
Comes through the hushed air wailingly.
As down the broad and silent stream
It glides, like shadows through a dream.
The slave is swinging in his mat,
His toil's short Sabbath sleeping,
While round and round the vampire bat
Unwearied watch is keeping.
The Hindoo mother's lamp is fed,
O'er sleeping forms its light is shed,
And she hath ta'en her midnight seat
With fly-flaps at her children's feet.
The weaver's restless task is o'er,
The raised canoe is on the shore,
Nor longer to the hunter's voice
The echoes of the hills rejoice;

Night is the hour, and earth and sky
In undisturbed stillness lie.

Hark! what comes sounding down the vale
With startling shriek and sudden wail?
As if some homeward wanderer^

With heedless step had strayed,
Deep through the tangling thickets where

The boa's lair was made, And saw the monster's lamplike eye, Fixed on him full and steadily. Its boding sound hath startled sleep, And dreamers from their couches leap, And many a mother's maddening eye Turns from her children to the sky; And many a dark red turban shines; And far in long embattled lines, Beneath the torchlight—widely glance The bright maschette—the pennoned lance— The Persian's courser plunges on In wild and rude caparison, His dark red scarf behind him streaming, His buckler's sheen around him gleaming— And there the dark Hindoos are grouped With white sleeves to the shoulder looped;.'

And many a brown and brawny limb

With gems and silver bound,
Moves in the distance dark and grim,

As if it spurned the ground.
And many a wild dilated eye
Like snowflakes on a winter sky,

Glares o'er the dusky cheek;
And round the forehead high and bold,
The costly shawl entwines its fold

O'er ringlets dark and thick.
And yell and whoop throughout the crowd,
At intervals ring long and loud—
And jungle knives are brandishing,
And battle songs the negroes sing.

A. B. P.

ON THE DEATH OF THE AUTHOR'S SON.

We'll find relief in sense of deep enduring,
We'll seek delight in thinking ill past curing;
And we will show allegiance to our child,
Fixed as his love for us—changeless and mild:
Hours, days, and months, and years, shall pass away,
His sightly form, now stiffened, shall decay.

« PreviousContinue »