News of the captives' proud deliverance, As if the knightly spirit burned to share Hath rescued and avenged those sufferers weak and fair. 5. Forget-forget the strange and foul defeat- New lessons of our strength the foe must learn; 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, Ye that in striving crowds, or on sick bed, 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 As cruel wrongs as heathen wrath can forge; They held their troth in patience, and thought scorn 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 Immortal maid, of heavenly birth; What power produced such harmony, And mortal creatures drank in sounds, That bore their souls beyond the bounds 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, The mighty monarch would inspire, 'Tis passed away. Yes! that lyre has passed away, The poëts hand is turned to clay; That through the courts of heaven rang, Their sacred minstrelsy. Oh! sounds like those can never die, They soar beyond mortality, And borne along through boundless space, 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? TO ERINNA. Music, when soft voices die, Odours, when sweet violets sicken, And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, SHELLEY. SUPER RIVULOS AQUARUM. Casimir Epigram: Lib. I. 20. Errabam nuper vitreas prope Thybridos undas, TO MY SISTER, About a seal engraved with a pen and a wreath. Well pleased am I to recognize The meaning of thy token, The omen suits my wish-the bay To earn its fragrant leaves. But if you blame what I have writ, My honour-wreath, (oh! do thou it Then-though it will not, must not die, |