So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start-for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,
That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty, with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb-
Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of feeling past away!

Spark of that flame-perchance of heavenly birthWhich gleams-but warms no more its cherished earth!

BYRON.

51. THE TURKISH LADY.

'Twas the hour when rites unholy

Called each Paynim voice to prayer,
And the star that faded slowly

Left to dews the freshened air.
Day her sultry fires had wasted,
Calm and sweet the moonlight rose;
Even a captive's spirit tasted
Half oblivion of his woes.

Then 'twas from an Emir's palace
Came an eastern lady bright:
She, in spite of tyrants jealous,

Saw and loved an English knight.
"Tell me, captive, why in anguish

"Foes have dragged thee here to dwell,
"Where poor Christians, as they languish,
"Hear no sound of sabbath bell ?"—
"'Twas on Transylvania's Bannat,

"When the crescent shone afar,
"Like a pale disastrous planet

"O'er the purple tide of war-
"In that day of desolation,

"Lady, I was captive made;
Bleeding for my Christian nation,
66 By the walls of high Belgrade."

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Say, fair princess! would it grieve thee
"Christian climes should we behold?"-
"Nay, bold knight! I would not leave thee
"Were thy ransom paid in gold!"
Now in heaven's blue expansion

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Rose the midnight star to view,
When to quit her father's mansion,
Thrice she wept, and bade adieu !
Fly we then, while none discover!
"Tyrant barks, in vain ye ride!"
Soon at Rhodes the British lover
Clasped his blooming Eastern bride.

ર

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 flash
O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow,
To the coral rocks are hurrying down
To sleep amid colours as bright as their own.

CAMPBELL.

52.-A SHIP SINKING.

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.

Oh! many a dream was in the ship

An hour before her death;

And sights of home with sighs disturbed
The sleepers' 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.-
Now is the ocean's bosom bare,
Unbroken as the floating air;
The ship hath melted quite away,
Like a struggling dream at break of day.
No image meets my wandering eye
But the new-risen sun and the sunny sky.
Though the night-shades are gone, yet a vapour dull
Bedims the wave so beautiful;

While a low and melancholy moan
Mourns for the glory that hath flown.

53.-BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

Or Nelson and the North

Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone;

By each gun the lighted brand

In a bold determined hand,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on.-

Like leviathans afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line ;

WILSON.

It was ten of April morn by the chime:
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.-

But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rushed

O'er the deadly space between.

66

"Hearts of oak!" our captains cried, when each gun From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back ;

Their shots along the deep slowly boom :-
Then ceased-and all is wail,

As they strike the shattered sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.-

Out spoke the victor then,
As he hailed them o'er the wave,
"Ye are brothers! ye are men!
"And we conquer but to save :—
"So peace instead of death let us bring.
“But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
"With the crews, at England's feet,
"And make submission meet
"To our king."-

Then Denmark blest our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief,
From her people wildly rose ;

As Death withdrew his shades from the day.

While the sun looked smiling bright

O'er a wide and woful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.-

Now joy, Old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,
While the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore !

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,

On the deck of fame that died,

With the gallant good Riou:

Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!

While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave !-

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CAMPBELL.

54. THE FATE OF MACGREGOR.

"MACGREGOR, Macgregor, remember our foemen ; "The moon rises broad from the brow of Ben-Lomond ; "The clans are impatient and chide thy delay; "Arise! let us bound to Glen-Lyon away."

Stern scowled the Macgregor, then silent and sullen, He turned his red eye to the braes of Strathfillan ;

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Go, Malcolm, to sleep, let the clans be dismissed; "The Campbells this night for Macgregor must rest."

""

Macgregor, Macgregor, our scouts have been flying, "Three days, round the hills of M'Nab and Glen-Lyon ; "Of riding and running such tidings they bear, "We must meet them at home, else they'll quickly be here.”

"The Campbell may come, as his promises bind him, “And haughty M'Nab, with his giants behind him ; “This night I am bound to relinquish the fray, "And do what it freezes my vitals to say.

Forgive me, dear brother, this horror of mind; "Thou knowest in the strife I was never behind, "Nor ever receded a foot from the van, "Or blenched at the ire or the prowess of man.