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Red-robed destruction far and wide extends Her thousand arms, and summons all her fiends To glut their fill, a gaunt and ghastly brood! Their food is carnage, and their drink is blood; Their music, wo: nor did that feast of hell Fit concert want,—the conquerors' savage yellTheir groans and shrieks whom sickness, age, or

wound, Or changeless, fearless love in fatal durance bound.

While valour sternly sighs, while beauty weeps; And vengeance, soon to wake like Samson, sleeps, Shrouded in flame, the imperial city low Like Dagon's temple falls—but falls to crush the foe!

Tyrant! think not she unavenged shall burn; Thou too hast much to suffer, much to learn : That thirst of power the Danube but inflamed, By Neva's cooler current may be tamed. Triumph a little space by craft and crime, Two foes thou canst not conquer-Truth and time. Resistless pair! they doom thy power to fade, Lost in the ruins that itself hath made ! Or, damn'd to fame, like Babylon to scowl O'er wastes where serpents hiss, hyænas howl.

Forge then the links of martial law, that bind, Enslare, imbrute, and mechanise the mind ; Indite thy conscript code with iron pen, That cancels crime, demoralizes men; Thy false and fatal aid to virtue lend, And start a Washington, a Nero end; And rainly strive to strangle in his youth Free lom, the Herculean son of light and truth. Stepfather foul !-thou to his infant bed Didst steal, and drop a changeling in his stead. -Yes, yes, I see thee turn thy vaunting gaze, Where files reflect to files the o'erpowering blaze; Rather, like Xerxes, o'er those numbers sigh, Braver than his, but sooner doom'd to die. Here-number only courts that death it cloys! Here-might is weakness, and herself destroys; Leud then thy southern myriads lock'd in steel, Lead on! too soon their nerveless arm shall feel Thue magazines impregnable of snow, That kill without a wound, o'erwhelm without a foe!

I see thee,-'t is the bard's prophetic eye, Blindly presumptuous chief,- I see thee fly! While breathing skeletons, and bloodless dead, Point to the thirsting foe the track you tread. To seize was easy, and to march was plain ; Hand to retreat, and harder to retain. Reft of thy trappings, pomp, and glittering gear, Dearth in thy van,-destruction in thy rear,Like foild Darius, doom'd too late to know The stern enigmas of a Scythian foe,Thv stindard torn, while vengeful scorpions sting The imperial bird, and cramp his flagging wing, The days are number'd of thy motley host, Freedom's vain fear, oppression’s vainer boast.

And lo! the Beresyna opens wide His yawning mouth, his wintry weltering tide! Erportant of his mighty meal, he flows In silent ambush through his trackless snows: There shall thy way-worn ranks despairing stand, Like trooping spectres on the Stygian strand, Anl curse their fate and thee,-and conquest sown With retribution deep, in vain repentance moan!

Thy veteran worn by wounds, and years, and toils, Pilgrim of honour in all suns and soils ! By thy ambition foully tempted forth To fight the frozen rigours of the north, Above complaint, indignant at his wrongs, Curses the morsel that his life prolongs, [sigh,Unpierced, unconquer'd sinks; yet breathes a For he had hoped a soldier's death to die. Was it for this that fatal hour he braved, When o'er the cross the conquering crescent waved? Was it for this he ploughed the western main, To weld the struggling negro's broken chain,Faced his relentless hate, to frenzy fired; Stung by past wrongs, by present hopes inspired, Then hurried home to lend his treacherous aid, And stain more deeply still the warrior's blade, When spoiled Iberia, roused to deeds sublime, Made vengeance virtue-clemency a crime; And 'scaped he those, to fall without a foe? The wolf his sepulchre-his shroud the snow !

"T is morn!-but lo, the warrior-steed in vain The trumpet summons from the bloodless plain ; Ne'er was he known till now to stand aloof, Still midst the slain was found his crimson hoof; And struggling still to join that well-known sound, He dies, ignobly dies, without a wound ! Oft had he hailed the battle from afar, And paw'd to meet the rushing wreck of war! With reinless neck the danger oft had braved, And crush'd the foe-his wounded rider saved; Oft had the rattling spear and sword assail'd His generous heart, and had as often fail'd : That heart no more life's frozen current thaws, Brave, guiltless champion, in a guilty cause ! One northern night more hideous work hath done Than whole campaigns beneath a southern sun. Spoild child of fortune! could the murder'd

Turk Or wronged Iberian view thy ghastly work, They'd sheathe the vengeful blade, and clearly see France needs no deadlier, direr curse than thee. War hath fed war!--such was thy dread behest, Now view the iron ents of the feast. Oh, if to cause and witness others' grief Unmoved, be firmness—thou art Stoa's chief! Thy fell recorded boast, all Zeno said Outdoes—“ I wear my heart within my head!"Caught in the northern net, what darest thou dare ? Snatch might from madness? courage from despair? If courage lend thy breast a transient ray, "T is the storm's lightning—not the beam of day: When on thine hopes the cloud of battle lowers, And frowns the vengeance of insulted powers ; When victory trembles in the doubtful scale, And death deals thick and fast his iron hail; When all is staked, and the dread hazard known, A rising scaffold, and a falling throne ! Then, can thy dastard soul some semblance wear Of manhood's stamp—when fear hath conquer'd

fear! Canst thou be brave? whose dying prospects show A scene of all that's horrible in wo! On whose ambition, long by carnage nursed, Death stamps the greatest change--the last, the

worst!

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Death !-to thy view most terrible of things, While courage rears his limbs of giant form, Dreadful in all he takes and all he brings !

Rock'd by the blast, and strengthen’d by the storm! -But, King of Terrors ! ere thou seize thy prey,

Rome fell ;-and freedom to her craggy glen Point with a lingering dart to Moscow's fatal day; Transferr'd that title proud—The nurse of men! Shake with that scene his agonizing frame, By deeds of hazard high, and bold emprize, And on the wreck of nations write his name ! Train'd like their native eagle for the skies,Oh, when will conquerors from example learn, Untamed by toil, unconquer'd till they're slain ; Or truth from aught but self-experience earn? Walls in their trenches-whirlwinds on the plain, How many Catos must be wept again!

This meed accept from Albion's grateful breath, How many Cæsars sacrificed in vain!

Brothers in arms! in victory ! in death!While Europe dozed—too aged to be taught Such are thy foes, Napoleon, when time The historic lesson young Columbia caught, Wakes vengeance, sure concomitant of crime. Enraptured hung o'er that inspiring theme, Fixed, like Prometheus, to thy rock, o'erpower'd Conn'd it by wood, by mountain, and by stream, By force, hy vulture-conscience slow devour'd; Till every Grecian, Roman name, the morn With godlike power, but fiendlike rage, no more Of freedom hail'd, -and Washington was born! To drench the world—thy reeking stage-in gore; I see thee redden at that mighty name,

Fit but o'er shame to triumph and to rule; That fills the herd of conquerors with shame: And proved in all things—but in danger-cool; But ere we part, Napoleon! deign to hear

That found'st a nation melted to thy will, The bodings of thy future dark career;

And freedom's place didst with thine image fill; Fate to the poet trusts her iron leaf,

Skill'd not to govern, but obey the storm, Fraught with thy ruin-read it and be brief, To catch the tame occasion, not to form ; Then to thy senate fiee, to tell the tale

Victorious only when success pursued, Of Russia's full revenge,Gaul's deep indignant wail. But when thou followed'st her, as quick subdued : -It is thy doom false greatness to pursue,

The first to challenge, as the first to run; Rejecting, and rejected by, the true;

Whom death and glory both consent to shunA stirling name, thrice proffered, to refuse; Live! that thy body and thy soul may be And highest means pervert to lowest views; Foes that can't part, and friends that can't agree.Till fate and fortune-finding that thou ’rt still Live! to be numbered with that common herd, Untaught by all their good and all their ill, Who life's base boon unto themselves preferred, Expell’d, recall’d, reconquer'd-all in vain, Live! till each dazzled fool hath understood Shall sink thee to thy nothingness again.

That nothing can be great that is not good. Though times, occasions, chances, foes and friends, And when remorse, for blood in torrents spilt, Urged thee to purest fame, by purest ends, Shall sting-to madness—conscious, sleepless guilt, In this alone be great—to have withstood

May deep contrition this black hope repel,Such varied, vast temptations to be good! Snatch me, thou future, from this present, hell! As hood-wink'd falcons boldest pierce the skies, Give me the mind that, hent on highest aim, The ambition that is blindest highest flies; Deems virtue's rugged path sode path to fame; And thine still waked by night, still dream'd by day, Great things with small compares, in scale sublime, To rule o'er kings, as these o'er subjects sway ; And death with life! eternity with time: Nor dared thy mitred Mentor set thee right: Man's whole existence weighs, sifts nature's laws, Thou art not Philip's son—nor he the Stagyrite! And views results in the embryo of their cause ;

And lo, thy dread, thy hate! the Queen of Isles, Prepared to meet, with corresponding deeds, Frowns at thy guilt, and at thy menace smiles ; Events, as yet imprisoned in their seeds; Free of her treasure, freer of her blood,

Kens, in his acorn hid, the king of trees, She summons all the brave, the great, the good. And freedom's germ in foul oppression sees; But ill befits her praise my partial line,

Precedes the march of time—to ponder fale, Enough for me to boast--that land is mine. And execute, while others meditate;

And last, to fix thy fate and seal thy doom, That, deaf to present praise, the servile knee Her bugle note shall Scotia stern resume, (plume: Rebukes, and says to glory-Follow me! Shall grasp her Highland brand, her plaided bonnet From hill and dale, from hamlet, heath, and wood, She pours her dark, resistless battle-food. Breathe there a race, that from the approving hand

LIFE. Of nature, more deserve, or less demand ? So skill'd to wake the lyre, or wield the sword; How long shall man's imprison’d spirit groan To achieve great actions, or, achieved-record; 'Twixt doubt of heaven and deep disgust of earth? Victorious in the conflict as the truce,

Where all worth knowing never can be known, Triumphant in a Burns as in a Bruce !

And all that can be known, alas! is nothing worth. Where'er the bay, where'er the laurel grows, Their wild notes warble, and their life-blood flows. Untaught by saint, by cynic, or by sage, There, truth courts access, and would all engage, And all the spoils of time that load their shelves, Lavish as youth-experienced as age;

We do not quit, but change our joys in age-Proud science there, with purest nature twined, Joys framed to stille thought, and lead us from ourIn firmest thraldom holds the freest mind;

selves.

A prouder motto marks thy stone

Than Archimedes' tomb; He asked a fulcrum-thou demandest none, But-reckless of past, present, and to comeDidst 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!

The drug, the cord, the steel, the flood, the flame,

Turmoil of action, tedium of rest, And lust of change, though for the worst, proclaim

How dull life's banquet is: how ill at ease the guest. Known were the bill of fare before we taste,

Who would not spurn the banquet and the board Prefer th' eternal, but oblivious fast, (sword ?

To life's frail-fretted thread, and death's suspended He that the topmost stone of Babel plann'd,

And he that braved the crater's boiling bedDid these a clearer, closer view command [led ?

Of heaven or hell, we ask, than the blind herd they Or he that in Valdarno did prolong

The night her rich star-studded page to readCould he point out, midst all that brilliant throng, His fixed and final home, from fleshy thraldom

freed ? Minds that have scann'd creation's vast domain,

And secrets solved, till then to sages seal’d, Whilst nature own'd their intellectual reign Extinct, have nothing known or nothing have re

vealed. Devouring grave! we might the less deplore

Th' extinguish'd lights that in thy darkness dwell, Wouldst thou, from that last zodiac, one restore, That might th' enigma solve, and doubt, man's

tyrant, quell. To live in darkness—in despair to die

Is this indeed the boon to mortals given ? Is there no port—no rock of refuge nigh? [heaven.

There is—to those who fix their anchor-hope in Turn then, O man! and cast all else aside :

Direct thy wandering thoughts to things aboveLow at the cross bow down in that confide, Till doubt be lost in faith, and bliss secured in love.

IRREGULAR ODE, ON THE DEATH OF

LORD BYRON.

Was love thy lay,–Cithera rein'd
Her car,

and own'd the spell!
Was hate thy theme,—that murky fiend

For hotter earth left hell!
The palaced crown, the cloister'd cowl,

Moved but thy spleen or mirth ;
Thy smile was deadlier than thy scowl,
In guise unearthly didst thou roam the earth,
Screen'd 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 pennon'd vane

O'er Cotopaxa spreads,
But-should he ken the prey, or scent the slain,-
Nor chilling height nor burning depth he dreads,
From Andes' crystal crag, to Lima's sultry plain!
Like Lucan's, early was thy tomb,

And more than Bion's mourn'd ;-
For, still, such lights themselves consume,

The brightest, briefest burn'd:-
But from thy blazing shield recoiled

Pale envy's bolt of lead;
She, but to work thy triumphs, toil'd,
And, muttering coward curses, fled ;-
Thee, thine own strength alone-like matchless

Milo-foil'd.
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 prison'd 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 hurla!-
Accorded king of anarch power,

And talent misapplied ;
That hid thy God, in evil hour,
Or showed Him only to deride,

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

We mourn thy wreck ;--that mighty mind

Did whirlwind passions whelm, While wisdom waver’d, half inclined

To quit the dangerous helm;
Thou wast an argosy of cost,

Equipp'd, enrich'd 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 hailid :-
Then sighs from valour's mailed breast,

And tears of beauty fail'd ;
Oh! hadst thou in the battle died,

Triumphant even in death,
The patriot's as the poet's pride,
While both Minervas twined thy wreath,
Then had thy full career malice and fate defied !
What architect, with choice design,

-Of Rome or Athens styledEre left a monument like thine ?-

And all from ruins piled!

Thy fierce volcanic breast, o'ercast

Fame-Fancy's child—by folly fed, With Hecla's frosty cloak,

On breath of meanest things,All earth with fire impure could blast,

A phantom, wooed in virtue's stead, And darken heaven with smoke:

That envy to the living brings,
O'er ocean, continent, and isle,

And silent, solemn mockery to the dead !
The conflagration ran :-
Thou, from thy throne of ice, the while,

Ne'er, since the deep-toned Theban sung
Didst the red ruin calmly scan,

Unto the listening nine,And tuned Apollo's harp—with Nero's ghastly Has classic hill or valley rung smile!

With harmony like thine!

Who now shall wake thy willow'd lyre! What now avails that muse of fire,

- There breathes but one, who dares Her nothing of a name!

To that Herculean task aspire ; Thy master hand and matchless lyre,

But-less than thou—for fame he cares, [desire ! What have they gained—but fame!

And scorns both hope and fear-ambition and

JOHN KENYO N.

John Kenyon, the descendant of a highly latter enumerating WordswORTH, SOUTHEY, respectable Anglo-West Indian family, was COLERIDGE, and many of the most distinborn, we believe, in Jamaica, and educated at guished persons of the age. the Charter-house and Cambridge. On quit The only works of Mr. Kenyon with which ting the university, he went abroad, visited we are acquainted, are a “ Rhymed Plea for various parts of the European continent, and Tolerance,” and “ Poems, for the most part resided for some time in Italy. Returning Occasional;" the first published in 1833, from his travels, he settled in England, divid

and the last in 1838. His productions are ing his time between London and the country, generally of a serious, didactic sort, philosobetween his books and his friends; among the phical and liberal, and carefully versified.

TO THE MOON.

That peace, how deep! this night of thousand

stars,
That hide themselves abash'd from the bold sun,
But hang, all fondly, on thy gentler brow,-
How calm! Yet not o'er calmer skies alone,
Mild Moon! is thy dominion: Thou dost sway
The very storm to obey thy peacefulness.
When winds are piping, and the charged clouds,
As if out-summond by that warlike music,
First in black squadrons rush ; then sternly muster
In sullen mass, on either side the heaven,
Like armies face to face, with space between;
"Tis then Thou glidest forth; like some pale nun,
Unhooded, whom a high and rare occasion
Wrests from her sanctuary, to interpose
In mortal quarrel, so thou glidest forth,
And lookest thy mild bidding; and the winds
"Are silent; and those close-compacted clouds,
Disbanding, fleet in tender flakes away,
And leave the world to thy tranquillity.

And ne'er did dawn behold thee lovelier yet,
Than when we saw thee, one remember'd day,
Thee and that brightest of all morning-stars,
Hang o'er the Adrian; not in thy full lustre,
But graceful with slim crescent; such as, erst,
Some Arab chief beheld in his own sky

Of purest, deepest azure ; and so loved it,
So loved it, that he chose it for his symbol;
A peaceful symbol on a warlike banner !
And oft, I ween, in many a distant camp,
Mid the sharp neigh of steeds, and clash of cymbals,
And jingle of the nodding Moorish bells,
When he hath caught that image o'er the tents,
Hath he bethought him of the placid hours
When thou wast whitening his night-feeding flocks
On Yemen's happy hills; and then, perchance,
Hath sigh'd to think of war! We too beheld thee
With untired eye fix'd upward ; scarce regarding
(So deep the charm which thou hadst wrapp'd

around us)
Where reddening lines along the eastward sea
Spoke of the sun's uprising. Up he rose,
From o'er the regions of the near Illyria,
Glorious, how glorious !-if less gladly hail'd
As warning thy departure. Yet, some time,
Ye shone together; and we then might feel
How they, the ancient masters of that land,
The dwellers on the banks of Rubicon,
Who saw what we were seeing, uninstruct
Of wiser faith, had, in no feign'd devotion,
Bow'd down to thee, their Dian, and to him
Bright-hair'd Apollo! We, too, bow'd our hearts,
But in a purer worship, to the One,
Who made, alone, the hills and seas and skies,

Was flung around o'er all those girding cliffs
And groves, and villages, and fortress towers,
And the far circle of that lake-like sea,
Till the whole grew to one expanded sense
Of peacefulness, one atmosphere of love,
Where the soul breathed as native, and mere body
Sublimed to spirit. ..... She, too, stood beside us,
Our human type of thee; the pure, the peaceful,
The gentle,-potent in her gentleness !
And, as she raised her eyes to thy meek glory,
In the fond aspiration of a heart,
Which prized all beauty and all sanctity ;
We saw, and loved to see, thy sainting ray
Fall, as in fondness, on her upturn'd brow,
Serene-like it. Alas! in how brief space
Coldly to glitter on her marble tomb !

She lies in her own land; far from the scene
Of that fair eve ; but thou, its fairer part,
Thou moon! art here ; and now we gaze on thee
To think on her; if still in sorrow, yet
Not without hope ; and, for the time to come,
Though dear to us thy light hath ever been,
Shall love thee yet the more for her sweet sake.

THE BROKEN APPOINTMENT.

And thee, fair moon, the hallower of them all!
-Well did that sun fulfil his rising promise,
Showering redundant light, the livelong day,
O'er plain, and inland peak, and bluest sea;
And brightening the far mole, which old Ancona
Hath rear'd upon the waves. Meanwhile, thy form
(Faint and more faint, and, if might be, more fair;
And still, as near to lose thee, loved the more)
Thinn'd to unseen. But as some morning dream,
Too sweet to part with, and which yet must fade
At touch of light, will oft unconsciously
Mix with the day, serener thoughts inweaving
Than sunbeams bring; or, as some melody,
Closed on the ear, nor e'en by it remember'd,
Will still its silent agency prolong
Upon the spirit, with a hoarded sweetness
Tempering the after-mood ; e'en so did'st thou
Waft the bland influence of thy dawning presence
Over the onward hours. Yet, thou sphered vestal !
If mine it were to choose me when to bend
Before thy high-hung lamp ; and venerate
Thy mysteries; and feel, not hear, the voice
Of thy mute admonition; let it be
At holy vesper-tide, when nature all
Whispers of peace; if solemn less than night's,
More soothing still. Such season of the soul
Obeys thee best. For as the unwrinkled pool,
Stilld o'er by stirless eve, will dimple under
The tiniest brushing of an insect's wing ;
So, at that hour, do human hearts respond
To every touch of finer thought. ....Such eve
Such blessed eve was ours, when last we stood
Beside the storied shore of Gaëta,
Breathing its citron'd air. Silence more strict
Was never.

The small wave, or ripple rather,
Scarce lisping up the sand, crept to the ear, (ment
Sole sound; nor did we break the calm with move-
Or sacrilege of word; but stay'd in peace,
Of thee expectant. And what need had been
Of voiced language, when the silent eye,
And silent pressure of each link'd arın,
Spoke more than utterance? Nay, whose tongue

might tell What hues were garlanding the western sky To welcome thy approaching! Purple hues With orange wove, and many a fioating lake Crimson or rose, with that last tender green Which best relieves thy beauty. Who may paint How glow'd those hills, with depth of ruddy light Translucified, and half ethereal made, For thy white feet to tread on? and, ere longE’er yet those hues had left or sky or hill, One peak with pearling top confess'd thy coming. There didst thou pause awhile, as inly musing O'er realm so fair! And, first, thy rays fell partial On many a scatter'd object, here and there; Edging or tipping, with fantastic gleam, The sword-like aloe, or the tent-roof'd pine, Or adding a yet paler pensiveness To the pale olive-tree; or, yet more near us, Were flickering back from wall reticulate' Of ruin old. But when that orb of thine Had clomb to the mid-concave, then broad light

I sought at morn the beechen bower,

Thy verdant grot; It came, -it went,—the promised hour,

I found thee not. Light zephyrs from the quivering boughs

Soon brush'd the transient dew, Then first I fear'd that Dove's own vows

Were transient too!

At eve I sought the well-known stream

Where, wont to rove,
We breathed so oft, by twilight gleam,

Our vows of love;
I stopp'd upon the pleasant brink,

And saw the wave glide past;
Ah me! I could not help but think

Love glides as fast.
Then, all along the moonlight glen

So soft, so fair,
I sought thy truant steps agen,-

Thou wert not there.
The clouds held on their busy way

Athwart the waning moon;
And such, I said, Love's fitful ray,

And wanes as soon.
Oh! I had cull'd for thee a wreath

Of blossoms rare;
But now each floweret droops beneath

The chill night-air. 'Tis past,—long past, our latest hour,

And yet thou art not nigh ;
Oh! Love, thou art indeed a flower

Born but to die !

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