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Or haply, in the palaces of kings,

Some stray jackal sate howling on the throne:
Or, on the temple's holiest altar, springs
Some gaunt hyæna, laughing all alone.

Nature o'erwhelms the relics left by time;-
By slow degrees entombing all the land;
She buries every monument sublime,

Beneath a mighty winding-sheet of sand.

Vain is each monarch's unremitting pains,
Who in the rock his place of burial delves ;
Behold! their proudest palaces and fanes
Are subterraneous sepulchres themselves.

Twenty-three centuries unmoved I lay,

And saw the tide of sand around me rise; Quickly it threatened to engulph its prey, And close in everlasting night mine eyes.

Snatched in this crisis from my yawning grave,
Belzoni rolled me to the banks of Nile,
And slowly heaving o'er the western wave,
This massy fragment reached the imperial isle.

In London, now with face erect I gaze
On England's pallid sons, whose eyes upcast,
View my colossal features with amaze,
And deeply ponder on my glories past.

But who my future destiny shall guess?

Saint Paul's may lie-like Memnon's temple-low; London, like Thebes, may be a wilderness,

And Thames, like Nile, through silent ruins flow.

Then haply may my travels be renewed :-
Some Transatlantic hand may break my rest,

And bear me from Augusta's solitude,

To some new seat of empire in the west.

Mortal! since human grandeur ends in dust,
And proudest piles must crumble to decay;
Build up the tower of thy final trust

In those blest realms-where nought shall pass away! London Magazine.

SERENADE FROM THE SPANISH.

BY J. G. LOCKHART, ESQ.

WHILE my lady sleepeth,

The dark blue heaven is bright,
Soft the moonbeam creepeth
Round her bower all night.
Thou gentle, gentle breeze,
While my lady slumbers,
Waft lightly through the trees
Echoes of my numbers,
Her dreaming ear to please.

Should ye breathing numbers
That for her I weave,
Should ye break her slumbers,
All my soul would grieve.
Rise on the gentle breeze,

And gain her lattice' height,

O'er yon poplar trees,

But be your echoes light
As hum of distant bees.

All the stars are glowing
In the gorgeous sky,
In the stream scarce flowing
Mimic lustres lie:-
Blow, gentle, gentle breeze,

But bring no cloud to hide
Their dear resplendences;

Nor chase from Zara's side
Dreams bright and pure as these.

E

IRREGULAR ODE, ON THE DEATH OF

LORD BYRON.

BY THE REV. C. C. COLTON.

WE mourn thy wreck ;—that mighty mind
Did whirlwind passions whelm,
While wisdom wavered, half inclined

To quit the dangerous helm ;-
Thou wast an argosy of cost,
Equipped, enriched in vain,

Of gods the work-of men the boast,
Glory thy port, and doomed to gain
That splendid haven, only to be lost!

Lost, even when Greece, with conquest blest,
Thy gallant bearing hailed ;-

Then sighs from valour's mailed breast,

And tears of beauty failed;

Oh! hadst thou in the battle died,

Triumphant even in death,

The patriot's as the poet's pride,

While both Minerva's twined thy wreath,

Then had thy full career malice and fate defied!

What architect, with choice design,
-Of Rome or Athens styled-
Ere left a monument like thine?-
And all from ruins piled!
A prouder motto marks thy stone
Than Archimedes' tomb;

He asked a fulcrum-thou demandedst none,
But-reckless of past, present, and to come-

Didst on thyself depend, to shake the world-alone!

Thine eye to all extremes and ends

And opposites could turn,

And, like the congelated lens,

Could sparkle, freeze, or burn;—

But in thy mind's abyss profound,

As in some limbo vast,

More shapes and monsters did abound,

To set the wondering world aghast,

Than wave-worn Noah fed, or starry Tuscan found!

Was love thy lay,-Cithæra reined

Her car, and owned the spell!

Was hate thy theme,-that murky fiend
For hotter earth left hell!

The palaced crown, the cloistered cowl,
Moved but thy spleen or mirth;

Thy smile was deadlier than thy scowl,

In guise unearthly didst thou roam the earth,
Screened in Thalia's mask,—to drug the tragic bowl!

Lord of thine own imperial sky,

In virgin "pride of place,"

Thou soared'st where others could not fly,

And hardly dared to gaze!—

The Condor, thus, his pennoned vane

O'er Cotopaxa spreads,

But-should he ken the prey, or scent the slain,-
Nor chilling height nor burning depth he dreads,
From Ande's crystal crag, to Lima's sultry plain!

Like Lucan's, early was thy tomb,

And more than Bion's mourned;

For, still, such lights themselves consume,
The brightest, briefest burned :-

:

But from thy blazing shield recoiled

Pale Envy's bolt of lead;

She, but to work thy triumphs, toiled,

And, muttering coward curses, fled ;—

Thee, thine own strength alone-like matchless Milo,—foiled.

We prize thee, that thou didst not fear
What stoutest hearts might rack,

And didst the diamond genius wear,

That tempts-yet foils-the attack.
We mourn thee, that thou wouldst not find,

While prisoned in thy clay,

-Since such there were,-some kindred mind,

For friendship lasts through life's long day,

And doth, with surer chain than love or beauty, bind!

We blame thee, that with baleful light
Thou didst astound the world,
-A comet, plunging from its height,
And into chaos hurled!—
Accorded king of anarch power,
And talent misapplied;

That hid thy God, in evil hour,

Or shewed Him only to deride,

And, o'er the gifted blaze of thine own brightness, lour!

Thy fierce volcanic breast, o'ercast
With Hecla's frosty cloak,

All earth with fire impure could blast,
And darken heaven with smoke :
O'er ocean, continent, and isle,

The conflagration ran;—

Thou, from thy throne of ice, the while,

Didst the red ruin calmly scan,

And tuned Apollo's harp-with Nero's ghastly smile!

What now avails that muse of fire,-
Her nothing of a name!

Thy master hand and matchless lyre,
What have they gained—but fame!
Fame-Fancy's child-by Folly fed,
On breath of meanest things,-
A phantom, wooed in virtue's stead,
That envy to the living brings,
And silent, solemn mockery to the dead!

Ne'er, since the deep-toned Theban sung
Unto the listening Nine,—

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