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TIVOLI.

BY WILLIAM SOTHEBY.

Spirit! who lov'st to live unseen,

By brook, or pathless dell, Where wild woods burst the rocks between, And floods, in streams of silver sheen,

Gush from their flinty cell!

Or where the ivy weaves her woof,

And climbs the crag alone, Haunts the cool grotto, daylight-proof, Where loitering drops that wear the roof

Turn all beneath to stone.

Shield me from summer's blaze of day,

From noon-tide's fiery gale,
And as thy waters round me play,
Beneath the o'ershadowing cavern lay,

Till twilight spreads her veil.

Then guide me where the wandering moon

Rests on Mæcenas' wall,
And echoes at night's solemn noon,
In Tivoli's soft shades attune

The peaceful waterfall.

Again they float before my sight,

The bower, the flood, the glade ;
Again on yon romantic height
The Sybil's temple towers in light,

Above the dark cascade.

Down the steep cliff I wind my way

Along the dim retreat,
And, 'mid the torrents' deafening bray,
Dash from my brow the foam away,

Where clashing cataracts meet.

And now I leave the rocks below,

And issuing forth from night,
View on the flakes that sun-ward flow,
A thousand rainbows round me glow,

And arch my way with light.

Again the myrtles o'er me breathe,

Fresh flowers my path perfume, Round cliff and cave wild tendrils wreathe, And from the groves that bend beneath,

Low trail their purple bloom.

Thou grove, thou glade of Tivoli,

Dark flood, and rivulet clear,
That wind, where'er you wander by,
A stream of beauty on the eye,

Of music on the ear:

And thou, that when the wandering moon

Illumed the rocky dell,
Did'st to my charmed ear attune
The echoes of Night's solemn noon,

Spirit unseen ! farewell!

Farewell ! — o'er many a realm I go,

My natal isle to greet,
Where summer sunbeams mildly glow,
And sea-winds health and freshness blow

O'er Freedom's hallowed seat.

Yet there, to thy romantic spot

Shall Fancy oft retire, And hail the bower, the stream, the grot, Where Earth's sole Lord the world forgot,

And Horace smote the lyre.

BY T. CAMPBELL, ESQ.

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,

The Sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume

Its immortality!
I saw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to sweep

Adown the gulf of Time !
I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation's death behold,

As Adam saw her prime !

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,

The Earth with age was wan, The skeletons of nations were

Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight, — the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;

In plague and famine some!
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead

To shores where all was dumb!

Yet, prophet like, that lone one stood,

With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood,

As if a storm passed by; Saying, we are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis Mercy bids thee go, For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears,

That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth

His pomp, his pride, his skill ; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,

The vassals of his will; –

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day:

For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Healed not a passion or a pang

Entailed on human hearts.
Go, let oblivion's curtains fall

Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall

Life's tragedy again.
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack

Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,

Like grass beneath the scythe.
Even I am weary

in
yon

skies To watch the fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies,

Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of deathTheir rounded grasp and gurgling breath

To see thou shalt not boast: The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,The majesty of Darkness shall

Receive my parting ghost ! This spirit shall return to Him

That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim

When thou thyself art dark !
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,

By Him recalled to breath,
Who captive led Captivity,
Who robbed the grave of Victory,--

And took the sting from Death!
Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up

On Nature's awful waste,

To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall taste-
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,

On earth's sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his immortality,

Or shake his trust in God!

SONG.

BY ISMAEL FITZADAM.

Oh, would I were among the bowers,

Thy waters, Witham! love to lave, Where Botolph's far-distinguished towers

Look out upon the German wave. There is a star upon that stream,

A flower upon those banks there blows, – Heaven cannot boast a lovelier beam,

Nor earth possess a sweeter rose.

How blest were I, how more than blest,

To sit me down such scenes among, And there, the cot's contented guest,

Divide my life 'twixt love and song; To guard thee, sweet, and in thine ears

Plead passion, not perchance in vainThe very vision costs me tears

Of mingled tenderness and pain.

Alas! how different is

my

lotTo drag through being far from thee, Far from that loved, Elysian spot,

Which Witham leaves in tears with me. But pilgrim of whatever shore,

No fate from thee my heart shall tear; And even when life itself 's no more,

My spirit will be with thee there.

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