Those silent years that steal away

The cheek's warm rose, the eye's bright ray,
Win from the mind a nobler prize,
E'en all its buoyant energies!

For him the April days are past,

When grief was but a fleeting cloud; No transient shade will sorrow cast,

When age the spirit's might has bow'd!
And, as he sees the land
grow dim,
That native land, now lost to him,
Fix'd are his eyes, and clasp'd his hands,
And long in speechless grief he stands.
So desolately calm his air,

He seems an image, wrought to bear
The stamp of deep, though hush'd despair;
Motion and life no sign bespeaks

Save that the night-breeze, o'er his cheeks,
Just waves his silvery hair!

Nought else could teach the eye to know
He was no sculptured form of woe!

Long gazing o'er the dark'ning flood,
Pale in that silent grief he stood;
Till the cold moon was waning fast,
And many a lovely star had died,
And the grey heavens deep shadows cast
Far o'er the slumbering tide;
And robed in one dark solemn hue,
Arose the distant shore to view.

Then, starting from his trance of woe,

Tears, long suppress'd, in freedom flow,

While thus his wild and plaintive strain,
Blends with the murmur of the main.

THE BARD'S FAREWELL.

Thou setting moon! when next thy rays
Are trembling on the shadowy deep,
The land, now fading from my gaze,
These in vain shall weep;

eyes

And wander o'er the lonely sea,
And fix their tearful glance on thee,

On thee! whose light so softly gleams,

Through the green oaks that fringe my native streams.

But, 'midst those ancient groves, no more
Shall I thy quivering lustre hail,

Its plaintive strain my harp must pour,

To swell a foreign gale;

The rocks, the woods, whose echoes woke,
When its full tones their stillness broke,

Deserted now, shall hear alone,

The brook's wild voice, the wind's mysterious moan.

And oh! ye fair, forsaken halls,

Left by your lord to slow decay, Soon shall the trophies on your walls Be mouldering fast away!

There shall no choral

songs resound,

There shall no festal board be crown'd;

But ivy wreath the silent gate,

And all be hush'd, and cold, and desolate.

No banner from the stately tower,

Shall spread its blazon'd folds on high,
There the wild brier and summer flower,
Unmark'd, shall wave and die.
Home of the mighty! thou art lone,
The noonday of thy pride is gone,
And, 'midst thy solitude profound,
A step shall echo like unearthly sound!

From thy cold hearths no festal blaze
Shall fill the hall with ruddy light,
Nor welcome, with convivial rays,
Some pilgrim of the night;
But there shall grass luxuriant spread,
As o'er the dwellings of the dead;
And the deep swell of every blast,
Seem a wild dirge for years of grandeur past.

And I-my joy of life is fled,

My spirit's power, my bosom's glow, The raven locks that graced my head, Wave in a wreath of snow!

And where the star of youth arose,

I deem'd life's lingering ray should close, And those loved trees my tomb o'ershade, Beneath whose arching bowers my childhood play'd.

Vain dream! that tomb in distant earth

Shall rise, forsaken and forgot;

And thou, sweet land, that gav'st me birth,
A grave must yield me not!

Yet, haply he for whom I leave

Thy shores, in life's dark winter-eve, When cold the hand, and closed the lays, And mute the voice he loved to praise, O'er the hush'd harp one tear may shed,

And one frail garland o'er the minstrel's bed!

BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST.

TWAS night in Babylon: yet many a beam,
Of lamps far glittering from her domes on high,
Shone, brightly mingling in Euphrates' stream
With the clear stars of that Chaldean sky,
Whose azure knows no cloud: each whisper'd sigh
Of the soft night-breeze through her terrace bowers,
Bore deepening tones of joy and melody,

O'er an illumined wilderness of flowers;

And the glad city's voice went up from all her

towers.

But prouder mirth was in the kingly hall,
Where, 'midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band,
High at the stately midnight festival,

Belshazzar sat enthroned. There luxury's hand
Had shower'd around all treasures that expand
Beneath the burning East; all gems that pour
The sunbeams back; all sweets of many a land,
Whose gales waft incense from their spicy shore;
-But mortal pride look'd on, and still demanded

more.