At last a slave bethought her of a harp; The harper came, and tuned his instrument ; At first the notes irregular and sharp On him her flashing eyes a moment bent ; Then to the wall she turned, as if to warp, Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent, And he begun a long low island song, Of ancient days-ere tyranny grew strong. Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall In time to his old tune; he changed the theme, And sung of love: the fierce name struck through all Her recollection; on her flashed the dream Of what she was, and is, if ye could call To be so being; in a gushing stream The tears rushed forth from her unclouded brain, Short solace, vain relief!—thought came too quick, Yet she betrayed at times a gleam of sense; Nothing could make her meet her father's face, Though on all other things with looks intense She gazed, but none she ever could retrace; Availed for either; neither change of place, Twelve days and nights she withered thus: at last, And they who watched her nearest could not know The very instant, till the change that cast Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, Glazed o'er her eyes-the beautiful, the blackOh! to possess such lustre-and then lack! Byron. TO A TUFT OF EARLY VIOLETS. Sweet flowers! that, from your humble beds And trust your unprotected heads Retire, retire! These tepid airs Stern winter's reign is not yet past— And nips your root, and lays you low. Alas for such ungentle doom! But I will shield you; and supply A kindlier soil on which to bloom, A nobler bed on which to die. Come then-ere yet the morning ray Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, And drawn your balmiest sweets away O come, and grace my Anna's breast. ! Ye droop, fond flowers! But, did ye know, What worth, what goodness there reside, Your cups with liveliest tints would glow, And spread their leaves with conscious pride For there has liberal nature joined Come then-ere yet the morning ray O! I should think,-that fragrant bed By one short hour of transport there. More blest than me, thus shall ye live While I, alas! no distant date, Mix with the dust from whence I came, Without a friend to weep my fate, Without a stone to tell my name. Gifford. COMFORT UNDER AFFLICTION When gathering clouds around I view, If aught should tempt my soul to stray If wounded love my bosom swell, |