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News of the captives' proud deliverance,
And many a boyish eye looks up the while,
Loyally kindling to a champion's glance,

As if the knightly spirit burned to share
The exploits of the men, whose stern advance

Hath rescued and avenged those sufferers weak and fair.

5.

Forget-forget the strange and foul defeat-
Speak only of our honour's bright return-
How on the blood-stained track of the retreat

New lessons of our strength the foe must learn;
For every step hath been regained, and war,

Planting its reckless hoof on treason-stains, Takes fierce requital; and henceforth no more

May scoffers say that England's genius wanes,

Which in the East shines on, and beams from shore to shore.

6.

And ye, high-hearted ladies, throw aside

The aching doubts of dark captivity;

Come forth and greet those, who would fain have died

In yester fight, could they but set you free.

And be that hardy Castellan, who kept

His leaguered fort against the raging clans,

Whose faith quailed not, whose courage never slept

Be Sale the pattern of our veterans,

Yet be the woman's fame more precious than the man's.

7.

Thanks for the tidings from the East! a strain

Of higher and more perfect harmony

Sounds for the few, who think their death is gain,
Who for the Faith are called away to die;
Hear it, ye lowly warriors of the cross,

Ye that in striving crowds, or on sick bed,
Delight to count the saints, nor deem it loss

If men for conscience' sake, have meekly bled And for the witness of the truth, have bowed the head.

8.

Now-in these chill enfeebled times-we hear
Of two good brethren of our own St. George,
Bold to endure, without a sign of fear

As cruel wrongs as heathen wrath can forge;
Friendless, and weaponless, and prison-worn,
And tempted to a safe apostacy,

They held their troth in patience, and thought scorn
Of human threats-one saw the other die,
And then serenely followed to the same dim bourne.

9.

Is not this victory? is not to us

Assurance given by that heroic death, That the brave household of Cornelius

In this unconscious world still sojourneth, To give high proof even in Pagan lands,

In camps, in dungeons, at the headsman's block, That they who seek a home not built with hands

Can hold life cheap, and calmly bide the shock, When He that tries the hearts that sacrifice demands?

* Col. Stodhart and Capt. Conolly.

L

MUSIC.

The solemn hymns of the Egyptian harpers, whom we behold on the walls of their tombs, may, according to Professor Babbage's theory, be still vibrating and curling the air on the verge of infinite space, but can never again become perceptible to the ears of man.

Page 138, Quart. Review, Vol. LXIII.

Is there an ear so deadly cold

That doth not yield to Music's strains,

That wrapt within its earthly mould
Her power disdains?

Immortal maid, of heavenly birth;
When first her sounds were heard on earth,
The very sunbeams leapt to see

What power produced such harmony,

And mortal creatures drank in sounds,

That bore their souls beyond the bounds
Of Immortality.

Think upon that Lydian measure,

That loosed the conqueror's soul in pleasure,

Or that loud and thrilling tone,

That echoed out the captive's groan,

And called for the vengeance justly due,

To the tortured ghosts of that valiant crew.

But not for us was strung that lyre,
That often with its magic lay,

The mighty monarch would inspire,

'Tis passed away.

Yes! that lyre has passed away,

The poëts hand is turned to clay;
Yet perchance the sound still lingers,
Swept of old by Grecian fingers,
And the notes with softened power,
Thrill awhile through angels' bower,
Seeming in their sounds to vie
With that celestial melody,

That through the courts of heaven rang,
When angels and archangels sang

Their sacred minstrelsy.

Oh! sounds like those can never die,

They soar beyond mortality,

And borne along through boundless space,
Impart in turn or tears of sadness,
Or else a momentary gladness
To other worlds, where beings dwell,
Whose souls with answering motions swell,
While the strain of the music is hurried by,

As it floats on its way to eternity.

EPIGRAM.

The adorning thee with so much art,

Is but a barbarous skill,

'Tis but the poisoning of a dart,

Too apt before to kill.

IDEM LATINE.

Quid tam crudeli decoras ex arte capillos?
Ferro letali tetra venena paras.

TO ERINNA.

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;

Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken;
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;

And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

SHELLEY.

SUPER RIVULOS AQUARUM.

Casimir Epigram: Lib. I. 20.

Errabam nuper vitreas prope Thybridos undas,
Quà solet ad scopulum naufraga lympha queri;
Dicebam "Mea lympha, meos lachrymeris amores,
"Nam me jam lachrymæ destituere meæ.
"O ego si possem fieri tam prodigus amnis,
"Eterna fluerem pulchra per arva fugâ"-
Hæc ego-sed tacitas suspendit lympha querelas;
In me mutari forsan et ipsa cupit.

TO MY SISTER,

About a seal engraved with a pen and a wreath.

Well pleased am I to recognize

The meaning of thy token,
Wherein the promise of a prize
Is classically spoken;

The omen suits my wish-the bay
Is what the pen achieves;
And at thy bidding, I'll assay

To earn its fragrant leaves.

But if you blame what I have writ,
And critic fingers press

My honour-wreath, (oh! do thou it
Alway in gentleness,)

Then-though it will not, must not die,
The bruised and drooping bough
Shall yield thine hand right gratefully
A scent it hath not now.

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