The rivers, by the blackening shore,
With lessening current run;

The realm our tribes are crush'd to get
May be a barren desert yet.

BRYANT

108. THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.

WHAT hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells?
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main !
Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells,
Bright things which gleam unreck'd of and in vain.
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!

We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, the depths have more !-What wealth untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,

Won from ten thousand royal argosies.

Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main!
Earth claims not these again!

Yet more, the depths have more !-Thy waves have roll'd
Above the cities of a world gone by!

Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old,

Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry!
Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play,
Man yields them to decay!

Yet more! the billows and the depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar,-
The battle-thunders will not break their rest.
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave!

Give back the lost and lovely!-Those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long;
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom
And the vain yearning woke midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,

--But all is not thine own!

HEMANS.

109. THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN.

THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.

Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the wither'd leaves lie dead,

They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's tread, The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,

And from the wood top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood! Alas! they all are in their graves-the gentle race of flowers

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of

ours:

The rain is falling where they lie-but the cold November rain

Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago, And the brier-rose, and the orchis died, amid the summer's

glow;

But on the hill the golden rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty

stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.

And now when comes the calm mild day—as still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter

home;

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the hazy light the waters of the rill,

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no

more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,

And we wept that one so lovely should have a lot so brief; Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of

ours,

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers, BRYANT.

110.--THE CORAL GROVE.

DEEP in the wave is a coral grove,
Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue,
That never are wet with falling dew,
But in bright and changeful beauty shine
Far down in the green and grassy brine.
The floor is of sand like the mountain drift,
And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow:
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift

Their bows where the tides and billows flow
The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and waves are absent there,
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air;
There with its waving blade of green,
The sea-flag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen
To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter;
There with a light and easy motion,

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea;
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean
Are bending like corn on the upland lea;
And life, in rare and beautiful forms,
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,

And is safe when the wrathful spirit of storms
Has made the top of the wave his own:
And when the ship from his fury flies,
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore:
Then far below, in the peaceful sea,
The purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

PERCIVAL.

111.-LORD BYRON'S LAST VERSES.

“ Missolonghi, Jan. 23, 1824.

"On this day I completed my thirty-sixth year."

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it has ceased to move;
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love.

My days are in the yellow leaf,

The flowers and fruits of love are gone,
The worm, the canker, and the grief,
Are mine alone.

The fire that in my bosom preys
Is like to some volcanic isle,
No torch is kindled at its blaze;-
A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
Th' exalted portion of the pain,
And power of love, I cannot share;
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not here-it is not here

Such thoughts should shake my soul; nor nowWhere glory seals the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece around us see;
The Spartan borne upon his shield
Was not more free.

Awake! not Greece-she is awake!
Awake, my spirit,-think through whom
My life-blood tastes it parent lake-
And then strike home!

I tread reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood-unto thee,
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regret thy youth,-why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best,
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.

BYRON.

112. THE BUGLE.

But still the dingle's hollow throat
Prolong'd the swelling bugle note,
The owlets started from their dream,
The eagles answer'd with their scream;
Round and around the sounds were cast,
Till echo seem'd an answering blast.

O! WILD enchanting horn!

Lady of the Lake.

Whose music up the deep and dewy air
Swells to the clouds, and calls on echo there,
Till a new melody is born.

Wake, wake again, the night

Is bending from her throne of beauty down,
With still stars burning on her azure crown,
Intense, and eloquently bright.