Batavian Freedom floats in air,
The patriot Swiss, in deep despair,
Deserts his native land;
While haughty Spain her Monarch sees
Submissive wait, on bended knees,
The Tyrant's dread command.
All Europe o'er the Giant stalks:
Whole Nations tremble as he walks,
Extinct their martial fire:
The Northern Bear lies down to rest-
The Prussian Eagle seeks her nest-
The Austrian Bands retire.
Yet ah! a storm begins to lour,
Satiate with cruelty and power,
At ease the Monster lies:
Lion of Britain, led by you,
If Europe's sons the fight renew,
A SECOND MAMMOTH DIES!
CHLOE'S form'd by the Graces to please,
She's tempting, rich, lovely and young;
I die whilst reflecting on these,
But revive at the noise of her tongue.
Or that old wall the rock was part,
The rude and native stone,
But what had been the work of art,
Nature now had made her own;
For tufted weeds the wall o'ergrew,
And where between their varied green
Here and there the stone was seen,
Its varied surface met the view
With lichens rich of many a hue;
Here spreading round a rougher crust In many a spot of white,
Here like the sunny orange bright,
And redder here as rust,
Above, below, on either side
The moss of many a year was seen,
And long thin grass spir'd up between,
And fern that wav'd in plumy pride;
And clust'ring richly over all
The dark green ivy crown'd the wall,
Here its loose tresses drooping down,
Or with a verdure pale and young,
That hid but half the under moss,
Close rooted to the stone it clung;
And here along, athwart, across,
In leafless shoots of bearded brown,
Like veins loose swelling, that emboss
The leathery neck of age.
BY THE LATE C. LEFTLY, ESQ.
BE busy, Boy! uncase my breast;
Thy wearied Master pants for rest;
Unclasp the morion on my brow,
And loose the blood-stain'd spurs below.
Though conquest on my banners wait,
And triumph make my battles great;
Yet 'tis not love of power or might
That arms me for the clashing fight—
But love of her, whose blessed smile
Approves my strength-o'erpays my toil.
Though burns my breast with furious heat,
When thronging multitudes repeat
My praises to the babbling air,
And clog my chariot with their care;
Yet more delightful-dearer far,
Than sounds of trumpets-songs of war-
Than hosts of heroes put to flight-
To idle in my fair-one's sight!
Come, come, be brisk, the tables spread,
And o'er the grey-stone pavement shed
A shower of roses;-through the hall
On statues rude, or columns tall,
The myrtle and the flaunting vine
In clustering wreaths luxuriant twine.
The richest feasts with haste prepare,
With burning perfumes cloud the air ;
With sparkling wine the goblets fill-
Obey thy Master, and be still.
When o'er yon deep and dusky stream
The moon has hung a silvery gleam;
And Echo multiplies the roar
Of waters dashing on the shore,
Shall I command thee, Boy, to sing,
And touch the tight Theorbo's string:
Then trim thy voice to Sonnets quaint,
That hope, and fear, and rapture paint;
To warm desires her bosom move,
And speak the ecstasies of love.
But, oh! peruse her features well;
Her reddening blush-her bosom's swell;
So may no gift of light regard,
Thy faithful diligence reward!
When fast she breathes of youthful sighs,
When liquid radiance fills her eyes,
When palpitations seize her soul,
And tender thoughts in tumult roll;
Oh then with wildering madness fly
O'er all the chords of minstrelsy,
Till fearful, and in wild amaze,
Her meekness shuns my frantic gaze,
And, listening what she dreads to hear,
She seals my wishes with a tear.
Then snatch thy torch, and run before;
Scarce let thy footsteps touch the floor;
Till, by her passion'd Lover led,
My Charmer mounts the bridal bed.
Oh then let every sound be mute,
Save the soft warble of the flute:
For there I yield to GERTRUDE's charms, Till battle calls again to arms.
A dispute had arisen between Sparta and Argos, for the possession of Thyrea, a small, but valuable territory, which lay contiguous to the borders of both states; it was to be decided by three hundred combatants from each side. Two Argives, Alcinor and Chromius, survived and returned to Argos. Of the Spartans, all were slain, except Othryades; he passed the night in collecting the spoils, and erecting a trophy. Then, unwilling to survive his friends, with his blood he wrote upon his shield NIKHZA, “I have conquered," and stabbed himself.
SCENE-The Field of Battle-A Trophy erected-The
Sun rising.
'Tis done-yon high-rear'd trophy shall record
Thy conquest, Sparta: Argos now no more
Shall lead her thousands forth in proud array,
O'er Thyrea's plain disputed-Thyrea's plain
Sparta has won in fight.
'Twas a fierce fight,
Worthy the cause, and worthy Sparta's sons.
Bravely we fed the vulture. Not a man,
False to his country, cast the backward look.
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