THE LAMENT OF COLUMBUS.

Nor mine the dreams,

The vague chimeras of an earth-stained soul,
O'er which the mists of error darkly roll;
For Heaven-sent beams

Have chased the gloom that round my soul was flung,
And pierced the clouds that o'er Creation's mysteries hung.

From my youth up

For this high purpose was I set apart-
An unbreathed thought, it lived within my heart;
And though life's cup

Was filled with all earth's agonies, I quaffed
Unmurmuring, for that hope could sweeten any draught.

There were who jeered,

And laughed to scorn my visionary scheme;
They thought yon glorious sun's resplendent beam
So brightly cheered

And vivified alone the spot of earth

Where they, like worms, had lived and grovelled from their birth.

But, called by God,

From home and friends my willing steps I turned;
Led by the light that in my spirit burned,
Strange lands I trod;

And lo! new worlds uncurtained by my hand,
Before the' admiring East in pristine beauty stand.

And what was given
To recompense the many nameless toils

That won my king a new-found empire's spoils?
The smile of heaven

Blessed him who sought amid those Eden plains
To plant the holy cross; but man's reward was chains.

Forgot by all,

Amid a land of Savages, I wait

From cruel hostile hands my coming fate;
Or else to fall

Beneath the grief that weighs upon my heart,
While unaneled, unblessed, my spirit must depart.

How have I wept

In pity for my followers, when afar

O'er the wide sea with scarce a guiding star
Our course we kept;

But night winds only o'er my grave shall sigh;
For, bowed by cruel wrongs, on stranger shores, I die.

No selfish hope

Of fame or honour led me here again
To tread this weary pilgrimage of pain-
He who must cope

With treachery and wrong, until the flame
Of pure ambition dies, has nought to do with fame.

To serve my king

I came, with zeal unkindness could not chill;
To glorify my God, whose holy will

Taught me to fling

The veil of error from before my eyes,

And teach mankind His power as shewn 'neath other skies.

Weep for me, Earth!

Thou, whose bright wonders I have oft explored;

Weep for me Heaven! to whose proud heights has soared, E'en from its birth,

My strong-winged spirit in its might alone;

Lo! he who gave new worlds now dies unwept, unknown.

BY MISS MITFORD.

THRRE is a voice of magic power

To charm the old, delight the youngIn lordly hall, in rustic bower,

In every clime, in every tongue, Howe'er its sweet vibration rung, In whispers low, in poet's lays,

There lives not one who has not hung Enraptured on the voice of praise.

The timid child, at that soft voice,
Lifts for a moment's space the eye;
It bids the fluttering heart rejoice,
And stays the step prepared to fly :
'Tis pleasure breathes that short, quick sigh,
And flushes o'er that rosy face;

Whilst shame and infant modesty
Shrink back with hesitating grace.

The lovely maiden's dimpled cheek
At that sweet voice still deeper glows;
Her quivering lips in vain would seek
To hide the bliss her eyes disclose;
The charm her sweet confusion shows
Oft springs from some low broken word:
O praise! to her how sweetly flows
Thine accent from the loved one heard!

The hero, when a people's voice
Proclaims their darling victor near,
Feels he not then his soul rejoice,
Their shouts of love, of praise to hear?
Yes! fame to generous minds is dear;—

It pierces to their inmost core;

He weeps, who never shed a tear; He trembles, who ne'er shook before.

The poet, too-ah! well I deem,

Small is the need the tale to tell;

Who knows not that his thought, his dream,
On thee at noon, at midnight dwell?
Who knows not that thy magic spell
Can charm his every care away?

In memory cheer his gloomy cell;
In hope can lend a deathless ray?

"Tis sweet to watch Affection's eye;
To mark the tear with love replete ;
To feel the softly-breathing sigh,

When Friendship's lips the tones repeat;
But oh! a thousand times more sweet
The praise of those we love to hear!
Like balmy showers in summer heat,
It falls upon the greedy ear.

The lover lulls his rankling wound,

By dwelling on his fair one's name;
The mother listens for the sound

Of her young warrior's growing fame.
Thy voice can soothe the mourning dame,
Of her soul's wedded partner riven,
Who cherishes the hallowed flame,
Parted on earth, to meet in heaven!-

THE EOLIAN HARP.

OH! breathe not-breathe not- -sure 't was something holy!
Earth has no sounds like these—again it passes

With a wild voice, that slowly rolls away,
Leaving a silence not unmusical!

And now again the wind-harp's frame hath felt
The spirit-like the organ's richest peal
Rolls the long murmur, and again it comes,
That wild low wailing voice.-

These sounds to me

Bear record of strange feelings;-it was evening,
And this same instrument lay on my window
That the sighing breezes there might visit it;-
I then did love to leave my lonely heart,

Like this soft harp, the plaything of each impulse,
The sport of every breath. I sate along,

Listening for many minutes- -the sounds ceased,
Or, though unnoted by the idle ear,

Were mingling with my thoughts-I thought of one,
And she was of the Dead. -She stood before me
With sweet sad brow, like the wan moon at midnight
Smiling in silence on a world at rest-

-I rushed away—I mingled with the mirth
Of the noisy many,-it is strange, that night
With a light heart, with light and lively words,
I sported hours away; and yet there came

At times wild feelings-words will not express them →
But it seemed that a chill eye gazed upon my heart,
That a wan cheek, with a sad smile, upbraided me;
I felt that mirth was but a mockery,

I did not sleep-I could not choose but listen,

For o'er the wind-harp's strings the spirit came

With that same sweet low voice. Yes! thou may'st smile, But I must think, my friend, as then I thought,