Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And on his waving hair;

And looked, from that lone post of death,
In still, yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud,
"My father! must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, thro' sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapped the ship in splendour wild;
They caught the flag on high;
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

Then came a burst of thundering sound-
The boy-oh! where was he?—
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strew'd the sea.

With mast and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing that perish'd there,

Was that young faithful heart.

MRS. HEMANS.

CATO'S SOLILOQUY ON THE IMMORTALITY OF

THE SOUL.

It must be so-Plato, thou reason'st well,

Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,

This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread and inward horror
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;

'Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter
And intimates eternity to man.

Eternity! thou pleasing dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,

Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ?

The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us,
(And that there is, all nature cries aloud

Through all her works), he must delight in virtue,
And that which he delights in must be happy.

But when, or where? This world was made for Cæsar.
I'm weary of conjectures-this must end them.
Thus am I doubly arm'd. My death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me.
This, in a moment, brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secure in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point:
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,

The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds.

ADDISON.

CHILDE HAROLD'S SONG.

ADIEU! adieu! My native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;

The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

Yon sun that sets upon the sea,
We follow in his flight ;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native land-good night!

A few short hours, and he will rise
To give the morrow birth ;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.

Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall-
My dog howls at the gate.

Come hither,

hither, my little page,

Why dost thou weep and wail?

Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,
Or tremble at the gale ?

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;
Our ship is swift and strong:
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
More merrily along.

"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

I fear not wave nor wind;

"Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

"Am sorrowful in mind;

"For I have from my father gone,

"A mother whom I love,

"And have no friend save these alone, "But thee-and One above.

66

Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?

"Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;

'But thinking on an absent wife

"Will blanch a faithful cheek.

"My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, "Along the bordering lake;

"And when they on their father call,

"What answer shall she make?"

Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay;
But I, that am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.

For who would trust the seeming sighs
Of wife or paramour?

Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes,
We late saw streaming o'er.

For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave
No thing that claims a tear.

And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea:
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?

Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger-hands;

But, long e'er I come back again,
He'd tear me where he stands.

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;

Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,
So not again to mine!

Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!

And when you fail my sight,

Welcome, ye deserts and

ye caves !

BYRON.

My native land-good night!

GERTRUDE VON DER WART.

She is supposed to be standing near the rack on which her husband is perishing.

HER hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes raised,
The breeze threw back her hair;

Up to the fearful wheel she gazed

All that she loved was there.

The night was round her clear and cold,
The holy heaven above,

Its pale stars watching to behold
The might of earthly love.

"And bid me not depart," she cried,

My Rudolph, say not so!

"This is no time to quit thy side;

Peace, peace, I cannot go.

Hath the world aught for me to fear,
When death is on thy brow?

"The world! what means it ?-mine is here'I will not leave thee now.

66

To strengthen me through this!

And thou, mine honour'd love and true, "Bear on, bear nobly on!

"We have the blessed heaven in view,

And were not these high words to flow
From woman's breaking heart?
Through all that night of bitterest woe
She bore her lofty part;

But oh! with such a glazing eye,

With such a curdling cheek

Love, love! of mortal agony

Thou, only thou, should'st speak!

The wind rose high, but with it rose
Her voice, that he might hear:
Perchance that dark hour brought repose,
To happy bosoms near;

While she sat striving with despair

Beside his tortured form,

And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.