All save the Shreckhorn's dreadful peak,
For ever black, and bare, and bleak;
For not a sprite that comes to throw
The soft and velvet veil of snow,
That dresses other heights, will dare
To plant his venturous footsteps there!
Ye mountains! have your peaks sublime
Scorned all the wasting power of time,
Unchanged since first the world began,
Mid all the changing fates of man.
Eagles of Austria, Rome and Gaul,
Lour! for these heights have mocked you all.
Ye thought these realms an easy spoil;
They foiled you, and shall ever foil;
For freedom lives her flag to rear

Where hills are proud and steeps are clear.
And who that knows these velvet vales,
These pine-clad steeps these healthful gales,
These glittering peaks to conqueror's hand
Will ever yield the lovely land?

Helvetia, trust the prophet prayers,
A sister spirit breathes and shares;
Albion, though distant, still allied
By kindred feelings, kindred pride,—
Where winds beneath the solar course
Blow with unerring, changeless force;
The slave may fear a tyrant's nod,
The humbled soul may kiss the rod,
But here, our spirits more sublime,
Are, like our seasons, unconfined;
There's vigour in the changing clime,
And freedom breathes in every wind.
Literary Gazette.

U

THE SPARTAN'S MARCH.

It was at once a delightful and terrible sight to see the Spartan's marching on to the tunes of their flutes, without ever troubling their order, or confounding their ranks; their music leading them into danger with a deliberate hope and assurance, as if some Divinity had sensibly assisted them.

PLUTARCH.

'Twas morn upon the Grecian hills,
Where peasants dressed the vines;
There was sun-light on Cithaeron's rills,
Arcadia's rocks and pines;

And brightly through his reeds and flowers
Eurotas wandered by,

When a sound arose from Spartan towers
Of solemn harmony.

Was it the shepherd's choral strain

That hymned the forest-God?

Or the virgins as to Pallas' fane

With their full-toned lyres they trod?

But helms were glancing on the stream,
Spears ranged in close array,
And shields flung back a glorious beam
To the morn of a fearful day;

And the mountain echoes of the land
Swelled through the deep blue sky,

While to soft strains moved forth a band
Of men that moved to die.

They marched not with the trumpet's blast,

Nor bade the horn peal out;

And the laurel woods as on they passed,

Rung with no battle shout!

They asked no clarion's voice to fire

Their souls with an impule high;

But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre,
For the sons of liberty!

And still sweet flutes their path around,

Sent forth Eolian breath;

They needed not a sterner sound
To marshal them for death.

So moved they calmly to their field,
Thence never to return,

Save bearing back the Spartan's shield,
Or on it proudly borne.
Constable's Edinburgh Magazine.

SONG.

THE lights are fair in my father's hall,

The red wine is bright to see;

But I'll flee like a bird and leave them all,
My Ocean Love! for thee.

There is gold around my silken robe,

And white pearls are in my hair:

And they say that gems and the broidered vest
Are woman's chiefest care;

But dearer to me is one silent smile

Of thine eagle eye than them all; And dearer the deck of thy bark to me Than my father's lighted hall.

I have no home now but thy arms,
And they are the world to me;
And be thou but true, I'll never regret

All, dear love! I have left for thee.

L. E. L.

LINES

ON A PORTRAIT, SUPPOSED TO BE THAT OF NELL GWYN,

BY SIR PETER LELY, IN THE

R. CRACROFT, ESQ.

POSSESSION

BEAUTIFUL and radiant girl!
I have heard of teeth of pearl,—
Lips of coral,-cheeks of rose,—
Necks and brows, like drifted snows,―
Eyes, as diamonds sparkling bright,
Or the stars of summer's night,—
And expression, grace, and soul,
Softly tempe.ing down the whole :
But a form so near divine,
With a face so fair as thine,-
And so sunny bright a brow,-
Never met my gaze till now!
Thou wert Venus' sister-twin

If this shade be thine, NELL GWYN!

Cast that carcanet away,

Thou hast need of no display--

Gems, however rare, to deck

Such an alabaster neck!

Can the brilliant's lustre vie

With the glories of thine eye?
Or the ruby's red compare

With the two lips breathing there?
Can they add a richer glow
To thy beauties? No, sweet, no!
Though thou bear'st the name of one
Whom 'twas virtue once to shun,-

It were sure to Taste a sin,

Now to pass thee by-NELL GWYN!

But they've wronged thee;—and I swear
By that brow, so dazzling fair,-

OF

By the light subdued that flashes
From thy drooping 'lids' silk lashes,—
By the deep blue eyes beneath them,—

By the clustering curls that wreathe them,―
By thy softly blushing cheek,-

By thy lips, that more than speak,

By thy stately swan-like neck,

Glossy white without a speck,-
By thy slender fingers fair,-
Modest mien, and graceful air,
'Twas a burning shame and sin,
Sweet, to christen thee-NELL GWYN !

Wreathe for aye thy snowy arms,
Thine are, sure, no Wanton's charms!
Like the fawn's-as bright and shy-
Beams thy dark, retiring eye;—
No bold invitation's given

From the depths of that blue heaven ;-
Nor one glance of lightness hid
'Neath its pale, declining lid!
No, I'll not believe thy name

Can be aught allied to Shame.

Then let them call thee what they will,

I've sworn and I'll maintain it still,

(Spite of Tradition's idle din,)

Thou art not-cans't not be-NELL GWYN!

A. A. W.