And Dorian reeds, made summer-melody,

And censers waved around;

And lyres were strung and bright libations pour'd! When, through the streets, flash'd out th' avenging

sword,

Fearless and free, the sword with myrtles bound!*

Through Rome a triumph pass'd.

Rich in her sun-god's mantling beams went by
That long array of glorious pageantry,
With shout and trumpet-blast.

An empire's gems their starry splendour shed
O'er the proud march; a king in chains was led;
A stately victor, crown'd and robed, came last. †

And many a Dryad's bower

Had lent the laurels which, in waving play, Stirr'd the warm air, and glisten'd round his way, As a quick-flashing shower.

-O'er his own porch, meantime, the cypress hung, Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rung— Woe for the dead!—the father's broken flower!

A sound of lyre and song,

In the still night, went floating o'er the Nile,
Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pile,
Swept with that voice along;

The sword of Harmodius.

† Paulus Æmilius, one of whose sons died a few days before, and another shortly after, his triumph on the conquest of Macedon, when Perseus, king of that country, was led in chains.

And lamps were shining o'er the red wine's foam
Where a chief revell'd in a monarch's dome,
And fresh rose-garlands deck'd a glittering throng.

'Twas Antony that bade

The joyous chords ring out!—but strains arose
Of wilder omen at the banquet's close!

Sounds, by no mortal made,

*

Shook Alexandria through her streets that night,
And pass'd-and with another sunset's light,
The kingly Roman on his bier was laid.

Bright 'midst its vineyards lay

The fair Campanian city,† with its towers
And temples gleaming through dark olive-bowers,
Clear in the golden day;

Joy was around it as the glowing sky,
And crowds had fill'd its halls of revelry,
And all the sunny air was music's way.

A cloud came o'er the face
Of Italy's rich heaven!—its crystal blue
Was changed, and deepen'd to a wrathful hue
Of night, o'ershadowing space,

As with the wings of death!-in all his

power

Vesuvius woke, and hurl'd the burning shower,
And who could tell the buried city's place?

See the description given by Plutarch, in his life of Antony, of the supernatural sounds heard in the streets of Alexandria, the night before Antony's death.

+ Herculaneum, of which it is related, that all the inhabitants were assembled in the theatres, when the shower of ashes which covered the city descended.

In the gay regions where the citrons blow,
And purple summers all their sleepy glow
On the grape-clusters pour ;

And where the palms to spicy winds are waving,
Along clear seas of melting sapphire, laving,
As with a flow of light, their southern shore.

Turn we to other climes !

Far in the Druid-Isle a feast was spread,
'Midst the rock-altars of the warrior dead:*
And ancient battle-rhymes

Were chanted to the harp; and yellow mead
Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed,
And lofty songs of Britain's elder time;

But, ere the giant-fane

Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even, Hush'd were the bards, and in the face of heaven, O'er that old burial-plain

Flash'd the keen Saxon dagger!-Blood was stream

ing

Where late the mead-cup to the sun was gleaming, And Britain's hearths were heap'd that night in

vain

For they return'd no more!

They that went forth at morn, with reckless heart,

* Stonehenge, said by some traditions to have been erected to the memory of Ambrosius, an early British king; and by others mentioned as a monumental record of the massacre of British chiefs here alluded to.

In that fierce banquet's mirth to bear their part; And, on the rushy floor,

And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls, The high wood-fires were blazing in their halls; But not for them-they slept their feast was o'er!

Fear ye the festal hour!

Ay, tremble when the cup of joy o'erflows!
Tame down the swelling heart!—the bridal rose,
And the rich myrtle's flower

Have veil'd the sword!-Red wines have sparkled fast

From venom'd goblets, and soft breezes pass'd,
With fatal perfume, through the revel's bower.

Twine the young glowing wreath !
But pour not all your spirit in the song,
Which through the sky's deep azure floats along,
Like summer's quickening breath!

The ground is hollow in the path of mirth :
Oh! far too daring seems the joy of earth,

So darkly press'd and girdled in by death!

SONG OF THE BATTLE OF
MORGARTEN.

["In the year 1315, Switzerland was invaded by Duke Leopold of Austria, with a formidable army. It is well attested that this prince repeatedly declared he would trample the audacious rustics under his feet;' ;' and that he had procured a large stock of cordage, for the purpose of binding their chiefs, and putting them to death.

"The 15th October, 1315, dawned. The sun darted its first rays on the shields and armour of the advanc→ ing host; and this being the first army ever known to have attempted the frontiers of the cantons, the Swiss viewed its long line with various emotions. Montfort de Tettnang led the cavalry into the narrow pass, and soon filled the whole space between the mountain (Mount Sattel) and the lake. The fifty men on the eminence (above Morgarten) raised a sudden shout, and rolled down heaps of rocks and stones among the crowded ranks. The confederates on the mountain, perceiving the impression made by this attack, rushed down in close array, and fell upon the flank of the disordered column. With massy clubs they dashed in pieces the armour of the enemy, and dealt their blows and thrusts with long pikes. The narrowness of the defile admitted of no evolutions, and a slight frost having injured the road, the horses were impeded in all their motions; many leaped into the lake; all were startled; and at last the whole