I've seen it on the breaking ocean,

Strive with a swoln convulsive motion,

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed

Of sin, delirious with its dread;

But these were horrors—this was woe

Unmixed with such—but sure and slow:

He faded, and so calm and meek,

So softly worn, so sweetly weak,

So tearless, yet so tender—kind,

And grieved for those he left behind;

With all the while a cheek whose bloom

Was as a mockery of the tomb,

Whose tints as gently sink away

As a departing rainbow's ray—

An eye of most transparent light,

That almost made the dungeon bright,

And not a word of murmur—not

A groan o'er his untimely lot,—

A little talk of better days,

A little hope my own to raise,

For I was sunk in silence—lost

In this last loss, of all the most;

And then the sighs he would suppress,

Of fainting nature's feebleness,

More slowly drawn, grew less and less;

I listened, but I could not hear—

I called, for I was wild with fear;

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread

Would not be thus admonished;

I called and thought I heard a sound—

I burst my chain with one strong bound,

I only stirred in this black spot,

And rushed to him:—I found him not,

I only lived—I only drew

The accursed breath of dungeon dew;

The last—the sole—the dearest link

Between me and the eternal brink,

Which bound me to my failing race,

Was broken in this fatal place.

One on the earth, and one beneath—

My brothers—both had ceased to breathe:

I took that hand which lay so still,

Alas! my own was full as chill;

I had not strength to stir, or strive,

But felt that I was still alive—

A frantic feeling,—when we know,

That what we love shall ne'er be so.

I know not why

I could not die,
I had no earthly hope—but faith,
And that forbade a selfish death.

Byron. EVENING BELLS.

Those evening bells, those evening bells,
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time,
When first I heard their soothing chime.

These joyous hours are passed away,
And many a friend that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 'twill be when I am gone,
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
Whilst other bards shall wake these dells,
And sing thy praise, sweet evening bells!

Moore.

THE DEATH OF MARMION.

With fruitless labour Clara bound,

And strove to staunch the gushing wound,

The priest, with unavailing cares,

Exhausted all the church's prayers,

'Ever,' he said,' That close and near,

A lady's voice was in his ear,

And that the priest he could not hear;

For that she ever sung,

'In the lost battle borne down by the flying,
'Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dy-
ing-'

So the notes rung—

'Avoid thee, fiend, with cruel hand,

Why shake the dying sinner's sand?

Oh look, my son, upon yon sign

Of the Redeemer's grace divine;

Oh think of faith and love.

By many a deathbed I have been,

And many a sinner's parting seen,

But never aught like this.—'

The war that for a space did fail

Now trebly thundered on the gale,
And' Stanley' was the cry.

A light o'er Marmion's visage spread,

And fired his glazing eye;

With dying hand above his head,

He shook the fragment of his blade,

And shouted' Victory.'

'Charge, Chester, charge !—On, Stanley, on !'— Were the last words of Marmion.

Sir Walter Scott.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

Soon shall I lay my head,

Where weary pilgrims sleep;
And slumber in that silent bed,

Where woe forgets to weep I

From hearts with anguish torn,
There, pain shall flee away;
For death is but the cloudy morn
Of an effulgent day.

When slumbering in the tomb

In dreamless sweet repose,
The wild flowers o'er my grave that bloom

Shall vernal sweets disclose.

The sun's first morning beam
Upon my sod shall rest;