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I reared thee as an eagle,

To the chase thy steps I led,
I bore thee on my battle-horse-

I look upon thee - dead!

“Lay down my warlike banners here,

Never again to wave,
And bury my red sword and spear,

Chiefs ! in my first-born's grave!
And leave me! I have conquered,

I have slain--my work is done:
Whom have I slain !_Ye answer not-

Thou too art mute, my son!”

And thus his wild lament was poured

Through the dark resounding night;
And the battle knew no more his sword,

Nor the foaming steed his might.
He heard strange voices moaning

In every wind that sighed;
From the searching stars of Heaven he shrank -

Humbly the Conqueror died.
Literary Souvenir.

HOPE.

BY THE LATE HENRY NEELE.

Hope still will mount; no timorous fears

Her purpose can beguile;
And if she weeps, those short-lived tears

Will brighten to a smile.

So the gay skylark soars and sings,

To hail the orb of day;
And even the dews that wet her wings,

Soon glitter in the ray.

BY THE LATE LORD BYRON.

"T is done! and shivering in the gale,
The bark unfurls her snowy sail ;
And whistling o'er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the freshening blast —
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one!

But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen,-
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes blest,
I should not seek another zone,
Because I cannot love but one!

'T is long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again ;
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one!

As some lone bird without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate ;
I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face:
And even in crowds I'm still alone,
Because I cannot love but one !

And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false, fair face,
I ne'er shall find a resting place :
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one!

The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,

Where friendship’s, or love's softer glow,
May smile in joy, or soothe in woe;
But friend or lover I have none,
Because I cannot love but one!

will weep

I go! but wheresoe'er I flee
There's not an eye

for

me, There's not a kind, congenial heart Where I can claim the meanest part ; Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone, Wilt sigh, although I love but one !

To think of every early scene-
Of what we are, and what we've been-
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe:
But mine, alas ! has stood the blow,
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one !

And who that dear, loved one may be
Is not for vulgar eyes to see ;-
And why that love was early crost,
Thou know'st the best-I feel the most :
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one !

I've tried another's fetters, too,
With charms, perchance, as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well —
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one !

to

'T would soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu ;
Yet wish I not those eyes weep
For him who wanders o'er the deep,-
Though wheresoe'er my bark may run,
I love but thee-- I love but one!

ANASTASIUS TO HIS CHILD ALEXIS.

BY THE REV. C. H. TOWNSEND.

Sleep, oh! sleep, my dearest one,

While I watch thy placid slumbers,
And

pour, in low and pensive tone,
To lull thee, wild and plaintive numbers.
If my tears thy pillows steep,
Sleep— thou canst not see me weep!

Thy cheek is pillowed on my arm,

As if secure that thee it shielded, And there a flush more deeply warm

The pressure to its tint hath yielded : Thy hand, which mine did lately clasp, Dwells there, relaxing in its grasp.

I long to view thy beauteous face,

To cheer me through the day's long toiling;
I love its every change to trace,

Shaded by thought-in pleasure smiling:
Amid the world, with pride I see
All eyes do homage unto thee !

But, oh! this hour is most - most dear,

When even from the friendly stealing,
I seek my only pleasures here,

And fix on thee my every feeling;
When thou dost seem all, all my own;
To live-breathe-smile- for me alone!

And, oh! to guard thee thus from ill,

No other joy can rank before it;
When ev’n thy sleep seems conscious still

How true a love is watching o'er it !
Such perfect confidence is shewn
In this defenceless hour alone.

Sleep,—thou canst not know the love,

Which passes all of outward shewing; Much may my looks, words, actions prove,

But how much more untold is glowing !
And now, in silent loneliness,
It
passes

all I most express.

A tender sadness melts my soul,

And Memory, with her train attending, Seems all her pages to unroll,

While Hope her airy dreams is blending. My tears are sweet; yet see not thou, Lest thou mistake their drops for woe,

I think of all I am the while,

Of guilt's dark hours, and life all blasted, And thou the only thing to smile,

Upon the heart, so widely wasted :
Oh! what can tell the rush of thought,
With joy, grief, rapture, anguish, fraught!

But with a thrill of keener pain,

A shuddering dread has now o'ercome me, That dries those kindly tears again,

Oh! should the future tear thee from me! Ah ah me! I hold thee now,-Shall I ask ever where art thou ?

me,

I cannot call thee back again,

Nor o'er again these joys be living,
And thousand worlds were pledged in vain,

To give what now this hour is giving;
But I shall writhe in fruitless woe,
With pangs which — no, I do not know.

Yet, wherefore thus perversely run

To boded ill from present pleasure ? I know not why; but lives there one

Who binds his life in one rich treasure,

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