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*c Now, Prince, shalt thou perish, if vengeance be due
"To love disappointed, though faithful and true!
"Though gallant thou ridest to the battle afer,
"Though foremost thy steed in the red fields of war,
"Like the death-breathing blast of the pestilent night
"My hate shall o'ertake thee, my fury shall smite!"

He left her desponding; then sadly she rose,
Like a lily all pale, from the couch of her woes:
Stream'd loosely the ringlets of jet o'er her breast,
And her eyes' ray was languid, with sorrow opprest;
Yet lovely 6he moved, like the silvery beam
Of the moon-light that kisses the slow-gliding stream.
She sought Gunner's chamber, awhile by his side
Stood mournfully pensive, then sternly she cried:

"To thee have I pledg'd my firm oath as thy bride,
'" And, Gunnar, I hate thee! yet be it not said,
"That Budela's proud daughter her faith has betray'd.
"To thee (woe the hour !) by the vengeance of heaven
"The flower of my youth and my fealty was given.
"Nor mortal shall dare with the breath of frail love
"The heart of ill-fated Brynhilda to move.
"But never again shall 1 rest on thy bed,
"And ne'er on my breast shalt thou pillow thy head,
"Till slain by thy steel in the night's silent hour
"The treacherous Sigurd lies stilt' in his gore:
"Till by treason he falls, who by treason has left
"Brynhilda of joy and of honour bereft."

Sad Gunnar, what strife thy fond bosom must rend!
First gaze on her beauty, th«n think of thy friend!
The slumber of midnight has sealed his bold eyes,
In the arms of Gudruna defenceless he lies.
"Tis done; in his blood the cold warrior is found,
But breathless his murderer lies on the ground.
Though gored aud expiring, ere lifeless he fell,
Stout Sigurd's arm sent his assassin to hell.

Mid the night's baneful gloom, see the torches that glare!
The mourners that give their wild locks to the air!
She has mounted the funeral pile with the slain,
With her slaves, with her women, a loud shrieking train.
The fairest, the noblest for honour and truth,
In the prime of her glory, the bloom of her youth.
The fire shall consume them, the living and dead,
And in one lofty mound their cold ashes be laid.


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Adieu! ye rocks, and thou sweet vale,
Where winds the brook of Borrowdale:
With ling'ring steps and sorrowing heart,
From your sequester'd scenes I part.
Adieu! sweet brook; with crystal tide,
Still o'er thy pebbled channel glide,
And slowly pour thy stream serene,
Through woody dells, and vallies green.

Let other waters rudely sweep
The cliffs abrupt of yonder steep:
From useless noise acquire a name,
And rise by violence to fame.
These to survey, with ideot stare,
Let Fashion's wond'ring sons repair;
Admire the torrents of Lodore,
So steep the fall,—so loud the roar;
And ring the nauseating chime.
Of cliffs and cataracts sublime.

Be thine, sweet Brook, an humbler fate;
Court not the honours that await
The rude, the violent, the proud,
And scorn the wonder of the crowd.
Ye Naiads! who delight to lave
Your lovely forms in this pure wave,
Long o'er its peaceful banks preside,
And guard its inoffensive tide;
Lest yon tall cliff, whose summit gray
E'en now o'erlooks its darken'd way,
Should headlong rush, with gath'ring force,
And violate its tranquil course:

Or, if so undeserved :i fate
Should e'er my lovely Brook await,
With gentle hands its current lead,
Along the flow'ry fav'ring mead,

• Characterised by Dr. Drennan. wlm has inserted this and the next mece in hk pooms, as one •• who would have taken his place among the very first poets of th* ^ had he not rather chosen to become its first philosopher." "*

And yield it to some channel's care,
With bed as smooth, and banks as fair;
Where shelter'd from the ruffling gale
The streams may steal along the vale,
And safely reach th' enchanted ground
Which Keswick's awful hills surround.
There slowly winding, let them stray
Along the scarcely sloping way,
Till, tir'd at last, their current dead.
They sink into their destin'd bed;
And shelter'd by yon flow'ry brake,
Mix, silent, with the peaceful lake.

These blessings, lovely Brook, be thine;
Such be thy course—and such be mine.


On an unfortunate young Lady.


A lingering struggle of misfortune past,
Here patient virtue found repose at last;
Unprais'd, unknown, with cheerful steps she stray'd
Through life's bleak wilds, and fortune's darkest shade;
Nor courted fame to lend one friendly ray,
To gild the dark'ning horrors of the way.

When fir'd with hope, or eager for applause,

The hero suffers in a public cause,

Unfelt, unheeded, falls misfortune's dart,

And fame's sweet echoes cheer the drooping heart.

The patriot's toils immortal laurels yield,

And death itself is envied in the field.

Her's was the humbler, yet severer fate,

To pine unnoticed in a private state;

Her's were the suff 'rings which no laurels bring,

The generous labours which no muses sing,

The cares that haunt the parent and the wife,

And the still sorrows of domestic life.

What though no pageant o'er her humble earth,
Proclaim the empty honours of her birth!
What tho' around no sculptur'd columns rise,
No verse records the conquests of her eyes!
Yet here shall flow the poor's unbidden tear,
And feeble age shall shed his blessings here:

Here shall the virtues which her soul posscss'd,
With sweet remembrance sooth a husband's breast:
And here in silent grief, shall oft repair
The helpless objects of her latest care,
Recall her worth, their adverse fate bemoan,
And in a mother's woes forget their own.


Afghaun Poetry, by the Hon. Mountstuart Elphinstone.

Whence has this spring appear'd again,

Which has made the country all round one rose garden?

The anemone is there, the sweet herbs, the Iris, and the basil,

The jasmine, the daffodil, the narcissus, and pomegranate flower.

The flowers of the spring are of all colours;

But the cheek of the red tulip glows most among them all.

The maidens have handfuls of roses in their bosoms.

The youths have bunches of flowers in their turbans.

The musician applies his bow to his cheghauneh.

And searches out the melodies of every string.

Come, O cup-bearer, bring full, full cups:

Let me be satiated with wine and revelry.

The Afghaun youth have Teddened their hands,

As a falcon dyes its talons in the blood of its quarry.

They have made their white swords rosy with blood,

As a bed of tulips blooming in summer.

Ainail Khaun and Derry a Khaun were the heroes.

Each emulous of the other.

They stained the valley of Kheiber with blood;

And poured the tumult (of war) on to Currupa.

lip to Currupa, and to Bajour, the mountains, and the plains

Trembled, as with an earthquake, again and again.

It is now five years that in those quarters,

Every day has been heard the clashing of bright swords.

Since I left that country, I am annihilated.

Am I dead, or are those around me dead?

I call aloud for troops till I am weary:

But those around me are deaf both to complaints and reproaches.

Had Had I known the state of the Eusofzyes,

I should have preferred flying to Dumghaur.

The dogs of the Khuttuks would be better that the Eusofzyes,

Even if the Khuttuks themselves were no better than dogs.

The whole of the Afghauns, from Candahar to Attock,

Rely openly or secretly on each other's honour.

Yet, see how many battles have taken place in all quarters,

And yet the Eusofzyes have shewn no sense of shame.

The first battle was behind the hills,

Where forty thousand Moguls were cut to pieces.

Their wives, and their daughters, were the prisoners of the AfghaunSj

And strings on strings of horses, camels, and elephants were taken.

The second was fought by Meer Hossein, in the Dooaub,

When his head was crushed like that of a snake.

After that, was the fight of the Fort of Nonshehra,

Which removed the intoxication from the head of the Moguls.

After it, came Jeswunt Sing, and Shoojaut Khaun,

Whom Amail defeated at Gundaub.

The sixth battle was with Mookurrum Khaun, and Shumsheer Khaun,

Whom Amail cut up to his heart's content.

We have always hitherto been victorious in battle;

And therefore, henceforward, let us trust in the Lord.

Arungzebe, for the last year, has been encamped against us:

Disordered in his appearance, and perplexed in his mind.

All his nobles have fallen in battle;

And the soldiers who have perished, who can number?

The treasures of Hindostaun have been scattered abroad.

The red gold Mohurs have been sunk in the mountains.'

No man would have found out, in eighteeen guesses,

That such transactions would have taken place in this country.

Yet, the King's malignity is not diminished;

Which formerly drew down the curse of his own father.

No dependance can be placed on the King, For he has ill designs, and is false and treacherous. No other issue can be discovered in this affair; Either the Moguls must be annihilated, or the Afghauns undone. If this be the course of the spheres which we see; If it be God's pleasure (that we perish), let this be the time. The heavens do not always revolve in the same manner. They are sometimes suited to the rose and sometimes to the thorn. This time (of danger) is the time for honour. Without honour, what would become of the Afghauns? If they harbour any other thought, it is destruction. There is no deliverance, but in the sword. The Afghauns are better than the Moguls at the sword. If the understanding of the Afghauns was awakened $


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