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He waved the sceptre o'er his kind
Resistless words were on his tongue,
Then Eloquence first flash'd below; Full arm'd to life the portent sprung,
Minerva from the thunderer's brow! And his the sole, the sacred hand, That shook her Ægis o'er the land.
And throned immortal by his side,
A woman sits with eye sublime,-
But, if their solemn love were crime,
He perished ;-but his wreath was won,
He perished in his height of fame : Then sunk the cloud on Athens' sun,
Yet still she conquer'd in his name. Fill'd with his soul, she could not die; Her conquest was Posterity !
THE MINSTREL'S HOUR. When day is done, and clouds are low,
And flowers are honey-dew, And Vesper's lamp begins to burn
Along the western blue, And homeward wing the turtle-doves, Then comes the hour the minstrel loves.
And still as shakes the sudden breeze,
The forest's deepening shade,
The silver serenade;
The star that peeps the leaves between
To him is but a light,
Shines to her pilgrim knight,
Or if some wandering peasant's song
Come sweeten'd from the vale,
Around the altar's pale ;
FROM SEBASTIAN, A SPANISH TALE. The sound came from a large and lofty tent, Tissued with emblems of Spain's ancient wars ; Through the slight silk the myrtle breathed its
scent, And pour'd their beams, the blue and midnight
stars. Raised like an idol, on the slight ascent Of a low, central tripod sat a Moor, The young magician of those sounds: the floor,
The waving walls, were touch'd with tender
gloom. She was unveil'd, and yet the shawl of green, That wreathed its thick-pearld fringe her locks
between, Threw shadow, dim and deep, upon her bloom ; But slight the tinge the Afric sun had thrown Upon her cheek, the eye dark diamond shone. She sat beneath a lamp of figured gold, That on her turban pour'd a dazzling flame. Her minstrel-tale of wonder had been told, Her hand was resting on the harp's rich frame; She gave one glance: her cheek seem'd flush'd
with shame. She cast upon the ground her startled eye ; She swept the harp,--no song accordant came ; Her bosom through its caftan panted high ; But all her voice was one deep, painful sigh. The high assemblage, sympathizing, gazed On her strange beauty and her sudden pain. Their plaudits proud her sinking spirit raised, She bow'd, and, blushing, she renew'd the strain. Her red lip smiled, as if in sweet disdain Of its late check : she lightly touched the string, And tried an air of sportiveness again : Again her hand, her voice seem'd wandering ;She dried a tear, and gave her prison'd anguish
“ Farewell, my gentle harp, farewell,
Thy task shall soon be done,
Shall, like its tones, be gone;
“ I shed no tears, light passes by
The pang that melts in tears,
No mortal arrow bears.
No longer passion's slave,
My bed must be the grave.
REV. W. L. BOWLES.
SOUTH AMERICAN SCENERY. Beneath aerial cliffs, and glittering snows, The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose, Chief of the mountain tribes ; high, overhead, The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread, Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires, And Chillan trail'd its smoke and smould'ring fires.
A glen beneath-a lonely spot of rest Hung, scarce discover'd, like an eagle's nest.
Summer was in its prime ;-the parrot- flocks Darken’d the passing sunshine on the rocks ; The chrysomel and purple butterfly, Amid the clear blue light, are wand'ring by ;
The humming-bird, along the myrtle bow'rs,
The sun is up, and 'tis a morn of May