Nor yet suppress the generous sigh, Because his rival slumbers nigh; Nor be thy requiescat dumb, Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb:For talents mourn, untimely lost, When best employed, and wanted most; Mourn genius high and lore profound, And wit that loved to play, not wound; And all the reasoning powers divine, To penetrate, resolve, combine; And feelings keen and fancy's glow,They sleep with him who sleeps below. And, if thou mourn'st they could not save From error him who owns this grave, Be every harsher thought suppressed, And sacred be the last long rest. Here, where the end of earthly things Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings; Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue, Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung: Here, where the fretted aisles prolong The distant notes of holy song,

As if some angel spoke again,

66

All peace on earth, good-will to men;"

If ever from an English heart,

Oh! here let prejudice depart,
And, partial feeling cast aside,
Record, that Fox a Briton died!

When Europe crouched to France's yoke,
And Austria bent, and Prussia broke,
And the firm Russian's purpose brave
Was bartered by a timorous slave;
E'en then dishonour's peace he spurned,
The sullied olive-branch returned,
Stood for his country's glory fast,
And nailed her colours to the mast!
Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave
A portion in this honoured grave;
And ne'er held marble in its trust
Of two such wondrous men the dust.

XXVI.-IVAN THE CZAR.

(MRS. HEMANS.)

Ivan the Great, Czar of Muscovy (1533 to 1584), was besieging Novgorod; but as he was now old and enfeebled, his generals begged that he would give the command of the assault to his son. This proposal enraged him beyond measure; nothing would appease him; and his son having prostrated himself at his feet to seek pardon and reconciliation, the old man struck him with such violence that he died two days afterwards. The father was now inconsolable; he took no further interest in the war, and soon followed his son to the grave.

He sat in silence on the ground,
The old and haughty czar;

Lonely, though princes girt him round,
And leaders of the war:

He had cast his jewelled sabre,

That many a field had won,

To the earth beside his youthful dead,
His fair and first-born son.

With a robe of ermine for its bed
Was laid that form of clay,
Where the light a stormy sunset shed
Through the rich tent made way:

And a sad and solemn beauty

On the pallid face came down,

Which the lord of nations mutely watched
In the dust, with his renown.

Low tones at last of woe and fear
From his full bosom broke;

A mournful thing it was to hear

How then the proud man spoke !

The voice that through the combat

Had shouted far and high,

Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones,
Burdened with agony.

"There is no crimson on thy cheeks,

And on thy lip no breath;

I call thee, and thou dost not speak-
They tell me this is death!
And fearful things are whispering

That I the deed have done ;—
For the honour of thy father's name,
Look up, look up, my son!

Well might I know death's hue and mien,
But on thine aspect, boy,
What till this moment have I seen,
Save bright and tameless joy?
Swiftest thou wert to battle,

And bravest there of all:

How could I think a warrior's frame
Thus like a flower should fall?

I will not bear that still, cold look!
Rise up, thou fierce and free!
Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook
All, save this calm, from thee!

Lift brightly up, and proudly,

Once more thy kindling eyes!

Hath my word lost its power on earth?
I say to thee, Arise!

Didst thou not know I loved thee well? Thou didst not, and art gone,

In bitterness of soul to dwell

Where man must dwell alone.

Come back, young fiery spirit!
If but one hour, to learn
The secret of the folded heart,

That seemed to thee so stern.

Thou wert the first, the first fair child
That in mine arms I pressed:

Thou wert the bright one that hast smiled

Like summer on my breast!

I reared thee as an eagle,

To the chase thy steps I led;

I bore thee on my battle-horse,
I look upon thee-dead.

Lay down my warlike banners here,
Never again to wave,

And bury my red sword and spear,

Chiefs in my first-born's grave;
And leave me !—I have conquered,—

I have slain, my work is done!
Whom have I slain? Ye answer not.
Thou, too, art mute, my son!"

And thus his wild lament was poured

Through the dark resounding night,
And the battle knew no more his sword,
Nor the foaming steed his might.

He heard strange voices moaning

In every wind that sighed;

From the searching stars of heaven he shrank;---
Humbly the conqueror died.

XXVII.-A SHIP SINKING.

(PROFESSOR WILSON.)

John Wilson, late Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, was born in Paisley in 1785. He died in Edinburgh in 1854. Of his poems, the best known are The Isle of Palms, and City of the Plague; and of his prose works, Recreations of Christopher North, and Noctes Ambrosianae.

-HER giant form,

O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm,
Majestically calm, would go

'Mid the deep darkness white as snow!
But gently now the small waves glide,
Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side.
So stately her bearing, so proud her array,
The main she will traverse for ever and aye.
Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast!
-Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer, this hour is her last!
Five hundred souls, in one instant of dread,

Are hurried o'er the deck;

And fast the miserable ship

Becomes a lifeless wreck!

Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock,

Her planks are torn asunder,

And down come her masts with a reeling shock, And a hideous crash, like thunder!

Her sails are draggled in the brine,

That gladdened late the skies;

And her pendant, that kissed the fair moonshine,
Down many a fathom lies.

Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues
Gleamed softly from below,

And flung a warm and sunny flush
O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow,
To the coral rocks are hurrying down,
To sleep amid colours as bright as their own.
Oh! many a dream was in the ship

An hour before her death;

And sights of home, with sighs, disturbed
The sleeper's long drawn breath.
Instead of the murmur of the sea,
The sailor heard the humming-tree,
Alive through all its leaves,-
The hum of the spreading sycamore
That grows before his cottage door,
And the swallow's song in the eaves;-
His arms enclosed a blooming boy,
Who listened, with tears of sorrow and joy,
To the dangers his father had passed;
And his wife-by turns she wept and smiled,
As she looked on the father of her child
Returned to her heart at last!

-He wakes, at the vessel's sudden roll-
And the rush of waters is in his soul!
Astounded, the reeling deck he paces,
'Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces;—
The whole ship's crew is there!
Wailings around and overhead—
Brave spirits stupified or dead—
And madness and despair!