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Thou wert not made thro' wintry years
To wither, till the heart grows old;
To feel the blood run cold.
And leave a deathless name,
And fall when death was fame?
John Malcolm, Esq~
THE LAMENTATION OF MARY QUEEN OF
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 looks they are wild with despair.
Ye roofs, where cold damps and dismay
With silence and solitude dwell;
How sad tolls the evening bell!
The owls from the battlements cry,
'O Mary prepare thee to die!'
Unchanged by the rigours of fate,
I burn with contempt for my foes;
This hope shall enlighten its close.
False woman! in ages to come
Thy malice detested shall be;
The heart still shall sorrow for me.
EXTRACT FROM THE BEDOUINS.
The firefly's lamp is on the air,
Night is the hour, and earth and sky
Hark! what comes sounding down the vale
With heedless step had strayed,
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,
As if it spurned the ground.
Glares o'er the dusky cheek;
O'er ringlets dark and thick.
A. B. P.
ON THE DEATH OF THE AUTHOR'S SON.
We'll find relief in sense of deep enduring,