Or haply, in the palaces of kings, Some stray jackal sate howling on the throne: Nature o'erwhelms the relics left by time;- Beneath a mighty winding-sheet of sand. Vain is each monarch's unremitting pains, 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, In London, now with face erect I gaze 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 :- And bear me from Augusta's solitude, To some new seat of empire in the west. Mortal! since human grandeur ends in dust, 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, Should ye breathing numbers And gain her lattice' height, O'er yon poplar trees, But be your echoes light All the stars are glowing But bring no cloud to hide Nor chase from Zara's side E IRREGULAR ODE, ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON. BY THE REV. C. C. COLTON. WE mourn thy wreck ;—that mighty mind To quit the dangerous helm ;- Of gods the work-of men the boast, Lost, even when Greece, with conquest blest, 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, He asked a fulcrum-thou demandedst none, 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 The palaced crown, the cloistered cowl, Thy smile was deadlier than thy scowl, In guise unearthly didst thou roam the earth, 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,- Like Lucan's, early was thy tomb, And more than Bion's mourned; For, still, such lights themselves consume, : 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 And didst the diamond genius wear, That tempts-yet foils-the attack. 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 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 All earth with fire impure could blast, 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,- Thy master hand and matchless lyre, Ne'er, since the deep-toned Theban sung |