"Before the small Athenian band
The Persian myriads stood at bay,
The spacious East lay down unmanned
Beneath the Macedonian's sway:
Alas! that Greek could turn on Greek-
Fountain of all our woes and shame-
Till men knew scarcely where to seek
The fragments of the Grecian name.

"Know ye the Romans of the North? The fearful race whose infant strength Stretches its arms of conquest forth,

To grasp the world in breadth and length? They cry 'That ye and we are old,

And worn with luxuries and cares,

And they alone are fresh and bold,
Time's latest and most honoured heirs!

"Alas for you! alas for us!

Alas for men that think and feel,

If once beside this Bosphorus

Shall stamp Sclavonia's frozen heel! Oh! place us boldly in the van,

And ere we yield this narrow sea, The past shall hold within its span

At least one more Thermopyla."

OCCASIONAL POEMS.

A MONUMENT FOR SCUTARI.

“THE cypresses of Scutari

In stern magnificence look down On the bright lake and stream of sea And glittering theatre of town ; Above the throng of rich kiosks, Above the towers in triple tire, Above the domes of loftiest mosques, Those pinnacles of death aspire."

Thus, years ago, in grave descant,
The trave'ller sang those ancient trees
That Eastern grace delights to plant
In reverence of man's obsequies;
But time has shed a golden haze

Of memory round the cypress glooms,

And gladly he reviews the days

He wandered 'mid those alien tombs.

Now other passion rules the soul;
And Scutari's familiar name

Arouses thoughts beyond controul,

A tangled web of pride and shame;

No more shall that fair word recall

The Moslem and his Asian rest, But the dear brothers of us all

Rent from their mother's bleeding breast.

Calmly our warriors moulder there,
Uncoffined, in the sandy soil,
Once festered in the sultry glare,
Or wasted in the wintry toil.
No verdure on those graves is seen,
No shade obstructs the garish day;
The tender dews to keep them green
Are wept, alas! too far away;

Are wept in homes their smiles shall bless No more, beyond the welte'ring deep, In cottages now fatherless

On English mead or Highland steep,

In palaces by common grief

Made level with the meanest room,

One agony, and one relief

The conscience of a glorious doom!

For there, too, is Thermopyla ;—
As on the dank Ægean shore,
By this bright portal of the sea
Stood the Devoted as of yore;
When Greece herself was merged in night,

The Spartan held his honour's meedAnd shall no pharos shed the light

To future time of Britain's deed?

Masters of Form !-if such be now-
On sense and powers of Art intent,
To match this mount of sorrow's brow
Devise your seemliest monument:
One that will symbolize the cause

For which this might of manhood fell,
Obedience to their country's laws,
And duty to God's truth as well.

Let, too, the old Miltonic Muse,
That trumpeted "the scattered bones
Of saints on Alpine mountains," use
Reveillé of forgotten tones;
Let some one, worthy to be priest

Of this high altar of renown,

Write in the tongues of West and East

Who bore this cross, who wore this crown.

Write that, as Britain's peaceful sons
Luxurious rich, well-tended poor,
Fronted the foeman's steel and guns,

As each would guard his household door; So, in those ghastly halls of pain

Where thousand hero-sufferers lay, Some smiled in thought to fight again,

And most unmurmuring passed away.

Write that, when pride of human skill
Fell prostrate with the weight of care,

And men prayed out for some strong will,
Some reason 'mid the wild despair,

The loving heart of woman rose
To guide the hand and clear the eye,
Gave hope amid the sternest woes,

And saved what man had left to die.

Write every name-lowlier the birth,
Loftier the death!—and trust that when

On this regenerated earth

Rise races of ennobled men,

They will remember-these were they
Who strove to make the nations free,
Not only from the sword's brute sway,
But from the spirit's slavery.

ON THE PEACE,

MAY, 1856.

COME in wild Hopes! that towards the dawning East
Uprose so high: now be content to stand,
Like hooded hawks upon the falconer's hand,
Awhile expectant of the promised feast.
Peace is proclaimed! the captives are releast!
Yet yearns the exile from the alien strand,—
Yet chafes and struggles Europe's fairest land,—
Untamed by priestly kings or kingly priest.
O blessed Peace! if peace were peace indeed,
Based upon justice and the eternal laws
Which make the free intent of Man the cause
Of all enduring thought and virtuous deed.
But 'tis not so: we know we do but pause,
Awaiting fiercer strife and nobler meed.