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BELSHAZZAR.

BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.

Hour of an Empire's overthrow !

The Princes from the feast were gone, The Idol flame was burning low ;

'Twas midnight upon Babylon.

That night the feast was wild and high ;

That night was Sion's gold profaned ; The seal was set to blasphemy;

The last deep cup of wrath was drained.

’Mid jewelled roof and silken pall,

Belshazzar on his couch was flung; A burst of thunder shook the hall

He heard—but 'twas no mortal tongue:

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King of the East, the trumpet calls,

That calls thee to a tyrant's grave; A curse is on thy palace walls

A curse is on thy guardian wave ;

A surge is in Euphrates' bed,

That never filled its bed before ; A surge, that, ere the morn be red,

Shall load with death its haughty shore,

Behold a tide of Persian steel !

A torrent of the Median car;
Like flame their gory banners wheel;

Rise, King, and arm thee for the war !'

Belshazzar gazed; the voice was past

The lofty chamber filled with gloom; But, echoed on the sudden blast,

The rushing of a mighty plume.

He listened ; all again was still ;

He heard no chariot's iron clang ;He heard the fountain's gushing rill,

The breeze that through the roses sang.

He slept :-in sleep wild murmurs came;

A visioned splendour fired the sky; He heard Belshazzar's taunted name ;

He heard again the Prophet cry

• Sleep, Sultan ! 'tis thy final sleep;

Or wake, or sleep, the guilty dies.
The wrongs of those who watch and weep,

Around thee and thy nation rise.'

!

He started, 'mid the battle's yell,

He saw the Persian rushing on;
He saw the flames around him swell:-

Thou’rt ashes ! King of Babylon.
New Times.

WITHERED VIOLETS.

BY WILLIAM READ, ESQ.

Long years have passed, pale flowers, since you

Were culled, and given in brightest bloom, By one whose eyes eclipsed your blue,

Whose breath was like your own perfume.

Long years—but though your bloom be gone,

The fragrance which your freshness shed, Survives, when memory lingers on,

When all that blessed its birth have fled.

Those hues and hopes will pass away ;

Thus youth, and bloom, and bliss, depart; Oh what is left when these decay !

The faded leaf, the withered heart ! London Magazine.

THE DEAD SEA.

BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.

The wind blows chill across those gloomy waves ;

Oh! how unlike the green and dancing main ! The surge is foul as if it rolled o'er graves ;

Stranger, here lie the cities of the plain.

Yes, on that plain, by wild waves covered now,

Rose palace once, and sparkling pinnacle ;
On pomp and spectacle beamed morning's glow,
On

pomp and festival the twilight fell.

Lovely and splendid all,—but Sodom's soul

Was stained with blood, and pride, and perjury ; Long warned, long spared, till her whole heart was foul,

And fiery vengeance on its clouds came nigh.

And still she mocked, and danced, and, taunting, spoke

Her sportive blasphemies against the Throne :It came !—The thunder on her slumber broke:

God spake the word of wrath !-Her dream was done.

Yet, in her final night, amid her stood

Immortal messengers, and pausing Heaven Pleaded with man, but she was quite imbued,

Her last hour waned she scorned to be forgiven !

'Twas done !-Down poured at once the sulphurous shower,

Down stooped, in flame, the heaven's red canopy. Oh! for the arm of God, in that fierce hour!

'Twas vain, nor help of God or man was nigh.

They rush, they bound, they howl, the men of sin ;

Still stooped the cloud, still burst the thicker blaze; The earthquake heaved !- Then sank the hideous din!

Yon wave of darkness o'er their ashes strays.

PARIS! thy soul is deeper dyed with blood,

And long, and blasphemous, has been thy day; And, Paris, it were well for thee that flood,

Or fire, could cleanse thy damning stains away. Literary Gazette.

SONG,

WRITTEN FOR AN INDIAN AIR.

BY THE LATE PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

I ARISE from dreams of thee,

In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,

And the stars are burning bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,

And a spirit, in my feet,
Hath led me, who knows how ! -

To thy chamber window, Sweet.

The wandering airs they faint

On the dark, the silent stream,
The Champak odours fail,

Like sweet thoughts in a dream.
The nightingale's complaint,

It dies upon her heart :-
As I must on thine,

Beloved as thou art !

The gentle dews of sleep

Are falling on thine eye;
And I, alas ! must weep,

Thou know'st not I am nigh!
My cheek is cold and wan,

My heart beats loud and fast ;-
O! press it to thine own,

Or it will break at last !

Liberal.

STANZAS,

WRITTEN ON THE BACK OF A LETTER.

BY ISMAEL FITZADAM.

BlEst be the page affection traced !

All welcome to the wanderer's eye, As roses springing mid the waste,

As rills along the desert dry.

And blest the spirit, breathing love,

That doubly every line endears, While pensive memory pours above

The melancholy joy of tears.

Sweet messenger !_Thou com’st to bless

To tell one heart-a homeless oneThat, in this wide world's wilderness,

It beats not-cannot break alone.

No, not alone, nor wholly lost,

While love's fond sympathy can save ; Still fond, but in misfortune most,

And burning brightest near the grave.

God! is not this the very hand,

When stretched on sickness' rack I lay, That wiped, as with a healing wand,

The bitter dews of pain away ?

That ministered the cooling cup

To my parched lip ?-No cup of glee, Or, wet with tears, was lifted up

To Heaven, in fervent prayer for me?

Yes, sister of my soul! the part

Was thine long months to watch and weep

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