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The shrill cicalas, people of the pine,

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song,
Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine,
And vesper-bell's that rose the boughs along:
The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, [throng,
His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair
Which learn'd from this example not to fly
From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye.

Oh Hesperus! thou bringest all good things-
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
To the young bird the parent's brooding wings,
The welcome stall to the o'er-labour'd steer;
Whate'er of peace about our hearth-stone clings,
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear,
Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest;
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast.
Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,

Seeming to weep the dying day's decay;
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns!

THE FATE OF BEAUTY.

As rising on its purple wing
The insect-queen of eastern spring,
O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer
Invites the young pursuer near,
And leads him on from flower to flower
A weary chase and wasted hour;
Then leaves him, as it soars on high,
With panting heart and tearful eye:
So beauty lures the full-grown child,
With hue as bright, and wing as wild;
A chase of idle hopes and fears,
Begun in folly, closed in tears.
If won, to equal ills betray'd,
Wo waits the insect and the maid,
A life of pain, the loss of peace,
From infant's play, and man's caprice:
The lovely toy so fiercely sought
Hath lost its charm by being caught.
For every touch that wooed its stay
Hath brush'd its brightest hues away:
Till, charm, and hue, and beauty gone,
'Tis left to fly or fall alone.

With wounded wing, or bleeding breast,
Ah! where shall either victim rest?
Can this with faded pinion soar

From rose to tulip as before?
Or beauty, blighted in an hour,

Find joy within her broken bower?
No! gayer insects fluttering by

Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die;
And lovelier things have mercy shown
To every failing but their own;
And every wo a tear can claim
Except an erring sister's shame.

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

SHE walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half-impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

TO MARY.

WELL! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
Warmly as it was wont to do.
Thy husband's bless'd—and 't will impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot:
But let them pass-Oh! how my heart
Would hate him, if he loved thee not!
When late I saw thy favourite child,

I thought my jealous heart would break,
But when th' unconscious infant smiled,
I kiss'd it for its mother's sake.

I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs,
Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother's eyes,
And they were all to love and me.
Mary, adieu! I must away:

While thou art blest I'll not repine,
But near thee I can never stay;

My heart would soon again be thine.

I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame,
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,

My heart in all, save hope, the same.
Yet was I calm: I knew the time
My breast would thrill before thy look,
But now to tremble were a crime-
We met, and not a nerve was shook.

I saw thee gaze upon my face,
Yet meet with no confusion there;
One only feeling couldst thou trace,
The sullen calmness of despair.
Away! away! my early dream,

Remembrance never must awake:
Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream?
My foolish heart, be still, or break.

OH! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S

BLOOM.

OH! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb!
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:

And oft by yon blue gushing stream

Shall sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread; Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!

Away! we know that tears are vain,

That death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain?

Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou-who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

MANFRED TO THE SORCERESS.

-FROм my youth upwards
My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men,
Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes;
The thirst of their ambition was not mine;
The aim of their existence was not mine;
My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers,
Made me a stranger; though I wore the form,
I had no sympathy with breathing flesh,
For midst the creatures of clay that girded me
Was there but one who-but of her anon.
I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men,
I held but slight communion; but instead,
My joy was in the wilderness, to breathe
The difficult air of the iced mountain's top,
Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing
Flit o'er the herbless granite; or to plunge
Into the torrent, and to roll along

On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave
Of river, stream, or ocean in their flow.
In these my early strength exulted; or
To follow through the night the moving moon,
The stars and their development; or catch
The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim;
Or to look, listening, on the scatter'd leaves,
While autumn winds were at their evening song.
These were my pastimes, and to be alone;
For if the beings, of whom I was one,-
Hating to be so,-cross'd me in my path,
I felt myself degraded back to them,
And was all clay again. And then I dived,
In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death,
Searching its cause in its effect; and drew
From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd-up dust,
Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd
The nights of years in sciences untaught,
Save in the old time; and with time and toil,
And terrible ordeal, and such penance

As in itself hath power upon the air,
And spirits that do compass air and earth,
Space, and the people infinite, I made
Mine eyes familiar with eternity,

Such as, before me, did the Magi, and
He who from out their fountain dwellings raised
Eros and Anteros, at Gadara,

As I do thee;-and with my knowledge grew
The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy
Of this most bright intelligence.

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR.*

"TIs time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move!
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze-
A funeral pile!

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus-and 't is not here

Such thoughts would shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,

And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood!-unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regret'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here:-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.

* Missolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824.

THOMAS PRINGLE.

THOMAS PRINGLE was born on the fifth of January, 1787, at Blaiklaw, a few miles from Kelso, in Scotland, where his father was a respectable farmer; and his early years were passed amid the pastoral and secluded scenery of his native country. An accident, by which he was made permanently lame, induced his father to send him to the university, and at eighteen he commenced his course at Edinburgh, where, after the completion of his education, he was for several years engaged in the office of the Commissioners of the Public Records. Growing weary of his sedentary employment under government, in conjunction with Mr. JAMES CLEGHORN, he in 1817 established the Edinburgh Monthly Magazine, which subsequently falling into other hands, was styled Blackwood's Magazine, and became the most famous periodical of its class in the world. An unwillingness to make the work a vehicle of personal satire and political controversy, led to disagreements with his publisher, and finally to a transfer of his services as editor to Constable's Edinburgh Magazine, by which he became involved in a literary warfare very uncongenial to his disposition.

In 1819, he published "The Autumnal Excursion and other Poems," and having given up his engagement with Constable, he proceeded in the same year to London, with his family and several friends, and embarked for South Africa. There he became engaged in a contest with the Colonial Governor, Lord CHARLES SOMERSET, which resulted in his return to England, where he arrived on the seventh of July, 1826.

AFAR IN THE DESERT.

AFAR in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, And, sick of the present, I cling to the past; When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, From the fond recollections of former years; And shadows of things that have long since fled Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead:

By an article in the "New Monthly Magazine," then edited by THOMAS CAMPBELL, he became known to the managers of the Antislavery Society, who, in 1827, engaged him as their secretary, in which capacity he was employed until the extinction of slavery in the British colonies. In the meantime, he was a contributor to different literary magazines, and for several years was editor of "Friendship's Offering," one of the most popular of the illustrated annuals. He also wrote his "African Sketches," a series of poems relating to that continent, and a "Narrative of a Residence in South Africa," both of which were published by Moxon. He died on the fifth of December, 1834, of a disease induced by too earnest devotion to his various pursuits, and just before his intended re-embarkation for Africa, whither he was going for the restoration of his health.

Some of Mr. PRINGLE'S poems are very spirited, and nearly all of them are smoothly and correctly versified; but relating chiefly to the traditions and manners of a country of which but little is known; their peculiar merit is not well appreciated, even by educated readers.

Mr. PRINGLE enjoyed the friendship of SIR WALTER SCOTT, ZACHARY MACAULAY, and many other eminent authors and philanthropists; and "although he discharged during many years, with a fearless and honest zeal, the duties of an office which exposed him to the bitterness of party spirit, no man, perhaps, had ever fewer enemies, or descended into the grave with fewer animosities."

Bright visions of glory-that vanish'd too soon;
Day-dreams-that departed ere manhood's noon;
Attachments-by fate or by falsehood reft;
Companions of early days-lost or left;
And my native land-whose magical name
Thrills to the heart like electric flame;

The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime;
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time
When the feelings were young and the world was

new,

Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view;

All-all now forsaken-forgotten-foregone!
And I-a lone exile remember'd of none-
My high aims abandon'd,―my good acts undone,-
Aweary of all that is under the sun,-

With that sadness of heart which no stranger may

scan,

I fly to the desert afar from man!

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life,
With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife:
The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear,-
The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear,—
And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly,
Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy;
When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high,
And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh-
Oh! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride,
Afar in the desert alone to ride!

There is rapture to vault on the champing steed,
And to bound away with the eagle's speed,
With the death-fraught firelock in my hand-
The only law of the desert land!

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
Away-away from the dwellings of men,
By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen;
By valleys remote where the oribi plays,
Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze,
And the kudu and eland unhunted recline
By the skirts of gray forests o'erhung with wild-vine;
Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood,
And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood,
And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will

In the fen where the wild-ass is drinking his fill.
Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
O'er the brown Karroo, where the bleating cry
Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively;
And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh
Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray;
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane,
With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain;
And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste,
Hying away to the home of her rest,
Where she and her mate have scoop'd their nest,
Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view
In the pathless depths of the parch'd Karroo.
Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
Away-away-in the wilderness vast,
Where the white man's foot hath never pass'd,
And the quiver'd Coránna or Bechuán
Hath rarely cross'd with his roving clan:
A region of emptiness, howling and drear,
Which man hath abandon'd from famine and fear;
Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone,
With the twilight bat from the yawning stone;
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root,
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot;
And the bitter-melon, for food and drink,
Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink:
A region of drought, where no river glides,
Nor rippling brook with osiered sides;

Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount,
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount,
Appears, to refresh the aching eye:
But the barren earth, and the burning sky,
And the blank horizon, round and round,
Spread-void of living sight or sound.

And here, while the night-winds round me sigh,
And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky,
As I sit apart by the desert stone,
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone,
"A still small voice" comes through the wild
(Like a father consoling his fretful child,)
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear,—
Saying-MAN IS DISTANT, BUT GOD IS NEAR!

THE BECHUANA BOY.

I SAT at noontide in my tent,
And look'd across the desert dun,
That 'neath the cloudless firmament
Lay gleaming in the sun,
When from the bosom of the waste
A swarthy stripling came in haste,
With foot unshod and naked limb,
And a tame springbok following him.
He came with open aspect bland,

And modestly before me stood,
Caressing with a kindly hand

That fawn of gentle brood; Then, meekly gazing in my face, Said in the language of his race, With smiling look, yet pensive tone,

66

Stranger, I'm in the world alone!"
"Poor boy," I said, "thy kindred's home,
Beyond far Stormberg's ridges blue,
Why hast thou left so young, to roam
This desolate Karroo ?"

The smile forsook him while I spoke;
And when again he silence broke,
It was with many a stifled sigh
He told this strange, sad history.

"I have no kindred!" said the boy :

"The Bergenaars, by night they came, And raised their murder-shout of joy,

While o'er our huts the flame
Rush'd like a torrent; and their yell
Peal'd louder as our warriors fell
In helpless heaps beneath their shot,
One living man they left us not!
"The slaughter o'er, they gave the slain
To feast the foul-beak'd birds of prey ;
And with our herds across the plain

They hurried us away

The widow'd mothers and their brood:
Oft, in despair, for drink and food
We vainly cried, they heeded not,
But with sharp lash the captives smote.

"Three days we track'd that dreary wild,

Where thirst and anguish press'd us sore; And many a mother and her child

Lay down to rise no more:

Behind us, on the desert brown,

We saw the vultures swooping down;
And heard, as the grim light was falling,
The gorged wolf to his comrade calling.

"At length was heard a river sounding
Midst that dry and dismal land,
And, like a troop of wild deer bounding,
We hurried to its strand;
Among the madden'd cattle rushing,
The crowd behind still forward pushing,
Till in the flood our limbs were drench'd
And the fierce rage of thirst was quench'd.
"Hoarse-roaring, dark, the broad Gareep
In turbid streams was sweeping fast,
Huge sea-cows in its eddies deep
Loud snorting as we pass'd;
But that relentless robber clan

Right through those waters wild and wan
Drove on like sheep our captive host,
Nor staid to rescue wretches lost.

"All shivering from the foaming flood,

We stood upon the stranger's ground, When, with proud looks and gestures rude, The white men gather'd round: And there, like cattle from the fold,

By Christians we were bought and sold,Midst laughter loud and looks of scorn,And roughly from each other torn.

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"My mother's scream so long and shrill,
My little sister's wailing cry,
(In dreams I often hear them still!)
Rose wildly to the sky.
A tiger's heart came to me then,
And madly 'mong those ruthless men
I sprang!-Alas! dash'd on the sand,
Bleeding, they bound me foot and hand.
"Away-away on bounding steeds

The white man-stealers fleetly go,
Through long, low valleys, fringed with reeds,
O'er mountains capp'd with snow,
Each with his captive, far and fast;
Until yon rock-bound ridge was pass'd,
And distant stripes of cultured soil
Bespoke the land of tears and toil.

"And tears and toil have been my lot

Since I the white man's thrall became, And sorer griefs I wish forgot

Harsh blows and scorn and shame. Oh, English chief! thou ne'er canst know The injured bondman's bitter wo, When round his heart, like scorpions, cling Black thoughts, that madden while they sting!

"Yet this hard fate I might have borne, And taught in time my soul to bend,

Had my sad yearning breast forlorn

But found a single friend:

My race extinct or far removed,

The boor's rough brood I could have loved-
But each to whom my bosom turn'd
Even like a hound the black boy spurn'd!
"While, friendless thus, my master's flocks
I tended on the upland waste,

It chanced this fawn leapt from the rocks,
By wolfish wild-dogs chased:
I rescued it, though wounded sore,
All dabbled with its mother's gore,
And nursed it in a cavern wild
Until it loved me like a child.

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Gently I nursed it; for I thought
(Its hapless fate so like to mine)
By good Utiko it was brought,
To bid me not repine-
Since in this world of wrong and ill
One creature lived to love me still,
Although its dark and dazzling eye
Beam'd not with human sympathy.
"Thus lived I, a lone orphan lad,

My task the proud Boor's flocks to tend; And this poor fawn was all I had

To love, or call my friend;
When suddenly, with haughty look
And taunting words, that tyrant took
My playmate for his pamper'd boy,
Who envied me my only joy.

"High swell'd my heart!-But when the star
Of midnight gleam'd, I softly led
My bounding favourite forth, and far
Into the desert filed.

And here, from human kind exiled,
Three moons on roots and berries wild
I've fared; and braved the beasts of prey,
To escape from spoilers worse than they.
"But yester morn a Bushman brought

The tidings that thy tents were near;
And now with hasty foot I've sought
Thy presence, void of fear;
Because they say, O English chief,
Thou scornest not the captive's grief:
Then let me serve thee, as thine own-
For I am in the world alone!"

Such was Marossi's touching tale.

Our breasts they were not made of stone: His words, his winning looks prevailWe took him for our own." And one, with woman's gentle art, Unlock'd the fountains of his heart; And love gush'd forth-till he became Her child in every thing but name.

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