While, like a midnight robber stealing by, He rules o'er all-and Him must kings obey, Whose will no counsel knows, and no control; The proud and gilded great ones are his prey, Who stand like pillars in a tyrant's hall! ODE FROM CASIMIR SARBIEVIUS, A Polish Poet. HON. W. HERBERT. THE Snow that crowns each mountain's brow, From each high rock and loaded bough Soon as the sun, reviving, flings His beams to warm the gale, And Zephyrs wild expand their wings When Time upon thine aged brow Quick summer flies, and autumn's suns, In changeful turn each season runs, Unchang'd o'er us the tempest lowers, Nor robe, nor garland deck'd with flowers, What youth on us but once bestows, Long shall he live, whose bright career All else flies with the fleeting year, BLINDNESS. RUSHTON. AH! think, if June's delicious rays Can fling o'er all a transient gloom; Can thus depress or cheer the mind, Then think, 'mid clouds of utter night, What mournful moments wait the blind! And who may tell his cause of woe? To love the wife he must not see, To be a sire, yet not to know The tender babe that climbs his knee; To have his feelings daily torn; With pain the passing meal to find; To live distress'd, and die forlorn; Are woes that oft await the blind. When to the breezy uplands led At noon, at blushing eve, at morn, He hears the red-breast o'er his head, While round him breathes the scented thorn: But, oh! instead of nature's face, Hills, dales, and woods, and streams combin'd, Instead of tints, and forms, and grace, Night's blackest mantle shrouds the blind. If rosy Youth, bereft of sight, 'Mid countless thousands pines unblest, What mournful moments wait the blind! LOVE. SOUTHEY. THEY sin who tell us Love can die : In heaven ambition cannot dwell, Its holy flame for ever burneth, From heaven it came, to heaven returneth; And hath in heaven its perfect rest : Hath she not then, for pains and fears, For all her sorrow, An over-payment of delight? SONG. ANONYMOUS. THOU art looking on the face of night, my love! Is not yon evening star bright, my love? Methinks it is A world of bliss For spirits all softness and light, my love! This earth is so chilled with care, my dear! Would we might wing our flight there, my dear, For love to blaze With the cloudless rays It would have in a world so fair, my dear! But my wish to visit that star, dear love! Of idolatry Breathes with thee like that planet afar, dear love! STANZAS, ADDRESSED TO THE GREEKS. ANONYMOUS. ON, on! to the just and glorious strife! On to the strife! for 'twere far more meet Shall the Pagan slaves be masters, then, Of the land which your fathers gave you? Shall the Infidel lord it o'er Christian men, When your own good swords may save you? No! let him feel that their arms are strong- Let him know there are hearts, however bow'd Let him learn how weak is a Tyrant's might, |