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, Haunts the cool grotto, daylight-proof, Shield me from summer's blaze of day, 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, Again on yon romantic height Down the steep cliff I wind my way Along the dim retreat, And, 'mid the torrents' deafening bray, Where clashing cataracts meet. And now I leave the rocks below, Again the myrtles o'er me breathe, Round cliff and cave wild tendrils wreathe, Thou grove, thou glade of Tivoli, 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. THE LAST MAN. BY T. CAMPBELL, ESQ. ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep I saw the last of human mould, The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, Some had expired in fight,—the brands In plague and famine some! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; Yet, prophet like, that lone one stood, 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 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, Entailed on human hearts. Go, let oblivion's curtains fall sprang, Its piteous pageants bring not back, My lips that speak thy dirge of death— The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,— This spirit shall return to Him Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste- On earth's sepulchral clod, SONG. BY ISMAEL FITZADAM. Oн, 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, — How blest were I, how more than blest, Of mingled tenderness and pain. Alas! how different is my lot To 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; |