Who captive led captivity, Who robbed the grave of Victory, Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste- New Monthly Magazine. THE GENIUS OF SPAIN. BY LORD HOLLAND. Paz con Inglaterra, con todo el mundo Guerra. On that steep ridge beyond Bayonna's bold, Sunburnt and rough!-He on his limbs did wear And shall I crouch now Freedom is my bride! No! the young offspring of that heavenly bed,Stand England firm,-shall 'gainst the World make head.' Morning Chronicle. A FAREWELL. BY ISMAEL FITZADAM. FARE thee well, land of my birth, That bound my heart to thee,-farewell! Away idle sorrows, that wet My cheek with unbidden regret !— I leave no fond sympathy here With a love that scarce death could remove, Lift the sail. The lone spirit that braves Lift the sail-all remembrances sleep Denied to my chance-kindled fire Or victory, torn from the brow Of the Paynim, shall hallow my vow,— Fare thee well, land of my birth, The one spot most sacred of earth!— That bound my heart to thee !-Farewell! Literary Gazette. LINES, WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS IN AMPTHILL PARK. BY J. H. WIFFEN, ESQ. Out upon time.-LORD BYRON. BRIGHTLY the moon-beams slept amid For the alder rankled at the door, And thistles grew on the chill damp floor; And from the night raven's sheltering bough, Is eat by the silent tusk of TIME! O, how unlike their years of prime, Crumbles the robes of the Priest of God; On the palace of kings and the peasant's cot, He turns his visage and they are not! Even lofty song and the magic of rhyme Yield at length to his power!-Out-out upON TIME! Leeds Intelligencer. SPANISH ROMANCE. Los Moros Vienen. BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY. THERE's a sound of arrows on the air,— I see through the trees the banners glare, This eve they shall hang on the christian's wall; And the haughty hands that those banners bore, This eve shall be stiff in their own dark gore. Then leave me, sweet lady! thy starry eyes That form!-for the silk and the gold of a throne.— Before the dawning sky is red, Yon plain shall be heaped with the dying and dead. Hark! Hark! 'Tis the christian's battle horn! Like a fiery gleam in the opening morn! One kiss, sweet love ;-go pray for Spain- Whose soul may on that fatal plain, But linger for thy parting hymn !— No. Be that idle thought forgiven !— We'll meet in bliss, in earth-or Heaven New Times. THE VISION. I CALL upon thee in the night, Thou stand'st before me silently, Calm as the broad and silent deep, When winds are hushed and waves asleep. Thou gazest on me!—But thy look Of angel tenderness, So pierces, that I less can brook, Around thee robes of snowy white, With virgin taste, are thrown; And at thy breast a lily bright, It is a dream-and thou art gone, To muse on days when thou to me O lonely is the lot of him Whose path is on the earth, |