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XXIII.
The drum hath ceased to roll,

That despot's dreams are o'er ;
And the conflicts of his stormy soul,

Are stilled for evermore!

XXIV.

His empires all are gone;

His trappings, once so proud ;-
A rock-bound grave is his only throne;

His kingly robe a shroud !

XXV.

And he, whose dread commands

To millions once were doom, Hath claimed, at length, from alien hands,

A lone, unhonoured tomb!

THE CHOICE.

BY MRS. ALARIC WATTS.

If she seem not fair to me,
What care I how fair she be !

Wither.

Tell me not that she is fair,
Queen-like in her mien and air ;
Graceful, as the silver swan
Como's sun-lit waves upon;
If, when merit meet her eye,
She can coldly pass it by;-
Modest worth neglect to raise
With the fostering breath of praise;---
Juno-like although she be,
She no Goddess is to me!

II.

Tell me not that beauty lies
In her laughter-loving eyes,
If those eyes, however bright,
Deign a gentle heart to blight;-

If, to prove her beauty's power,
She can trifle for an hour;-
Call up warmest hopes, and then
Freeze them to their fount again ;-
Fair as young Euphrosyne,
She no Goddess is to me!

III.

Though the lore of ancient days,– Though the Bard's sublimest łays,– Though the learning of the College, Be to her familiar knowledge ;If she cannot stoop to find Wisdom in a simple mind;Be content to vail her power, In her most triumphant hour; Pallas' self although she be, She no Goddess is to me!

IV.

Though to her creative hand
Painting hath resigned her wand ;-
Though with Sappho's magic art,
She can chain the willing heart;-
Though the charms of all the Graces,
(With their more than mortal faces),--
Though the gifts of all the Nine
In her single self combine;-
She no Goddess is to me,
Wanting human sympathy!

V. If, when self-conceit be near, She repress the rising sneer ;If when wit be flashing round, She forbear the meek to wound;If, subdued by lore Divine, She o'ercome the wish to shine ;If Wit, Learning, Pride, or Beauty Bow before the shrine of Duty; She, whate'er her form may be, More than Goddess is to me!

THE BRIDAL OF BELMONT.

A LEGEND OF THE RHINE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “LILLIAN.”

WHERE foams and flows the glorious Rhine,

Many a ruin wan and gray,
O’erlooks the corn-field and the vine,

Majestic in its dark decay.
Among their dim clouds, long ago,
They mocked the battles that raged below,
And greeted the guests, in arms that came,
With hissing arrow, and scalding flame :
But there is not one, of the homes of pride
That frown on the breast of the peaceful tide,
Whose leafy walls more proudly tower,
Than these, the walls of Belmont Tower.

Where foams and flows the glorious Rhine,

Many a fierce and fiery lord
Did carve the meat, and pour the wine,

For all that revelled at his board.
Father and son, they were all alike,
Firm to endure, and fast to strike;

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