Beneath the blast the forests bend,
And thick the branchy ruin lies
And wide the shower of foliage flies;
The lake's black waves in tumult blend,
Revolving o'er and o'er and o'er
And foaming on the rocky shore,
Whose caverns echo to their roar.

The sight sublime enrapts my thought,
And swift along the past it strays
And much of strange event surveys-
What history's faithful tongue has taught,
Or fancy formed, whose plastic skill
The page with fabled change can fill
Of ill to good or good to ill.

But can my soul the scene enjoy
That rends another's breast with pain?
Oh, hapless he who, near the main,
Now sees its billowy rage destroy,
Beholds the foundering bark descend,
Nor knows but what its fate may end
The moments of his dearest friend.

JOHN SCOTT.

While rock and glen and cave and coast
Shook with the war-cry of that host,

The thunder of their feet;
He heard the imperial echoes ring-
He heard, and felt himself a king.

I saw him next alone, nor camp
Nor chief his steps attended;
Nor banner blazed, nor courser's tramp
With war-cries proudly blended.
He stood alone whom fortune high
So lately seemed to deify;

He who with Heaven contended
Fled like a fugitive and slave—
Behind, the foe; before, the wave.

He stood-fleet, army, treasure, gone
Alone, and in despair,

While wave and wind swept ruthless on

For they were monarchs there,

And Xerxes in a single bark,

'Where late his thousand ships were dark,

Must all their fury dare. What a revenge, a trophy, this,

For thee, immortal Salamis !

I

FLIGHT OF XERXES.

SAW him on the battle-eve,

When like a king he bore him,

Proud hosts in glittering helm and greave,

And prouder chiefs, before him;

The warrior, and the warrior's deeds,
The morrow, and the morrow's meeds-
No daunting thoughts came o'er him:
He looked around him, and his eye
Defiance flashed to earth and sky.

He looked on ocean: its broad breast
Was covered with his fleet;
On earth, and saw from east to west
His bannered millions meet;

438

T is the hour for souls,

will and love,

Be lightened to redemption.

The world's old,

But the old world waits the

hour to be renewed

Toward which new hearts in

individual growth

multitude

the fair,

of men;

Developed whence, shall grow spontaneously New churches, new ceremonies, new laws Admitting freedom, new societies

braided hair.

I come, but so noiseless shall be my way Through the smiling crowds of the young and gay

new.

My Romney! Lifting up my hand in his,
As wheeled by seeing spirits toward the east,
He turned instinctively where faint and fair
Along the tingling desert of the sky,
Beyond the circle of the conscious hills,
Were laid in jasper-stone as clear as glass
The first foundations of that new, near day
Which should be builded out of heaven to
God.

He stood a moment with erected brows,

In silence, as a creature might who gazedStood calm and fed his blind, majestic eyes Upon the thought of perfect noon. And

when

I saw his soul saw, "Jasper first," I said;

Of me, the unseen, the unbidden guest; Not an undertone on the ear shall swell, Smiting your hearts like a funeral-knell.

I come! Let the music's echoing note
Still through the air of your ballroom
float;

Let the starry lamps soft radiance throw
On the rose-touched cheek and the brow of

snow:

Not a freezing pulse, not a thrill of fear, Shall tell that the king of the grave is

near;

Not a pallid face, not a rayless eye,
Shall whisper of me as I hurry by
Marking the doomed I shall summon away
To their low dark cells in the house of clay.

In the festal hours of the parted year,
And many a beautiful form has bowed

To the sleep that dwells in the damp white shroud:

They died when the first spring blossom was

seen,

As the voice of her lover whispering near,
And my footstep so soft by the infant's bed
He will deem it his mother's anxious tread,
And his innocent eyes will gently close
As I kiss from his bright young lips the

rose:

fear

And round her now, as still she sleeps

Encoffined in her prime,

No eye in anguished sorrow weeps,
For grief is here sublime.

E'en while she lived an awe was cast

Around her loveliness;

It seemed as if, whene'er she passed,
A spirit came to bless.
A child upraised its tiny hands,

And cried, "Oh, weep no more!
Mother, behold! an angel stands
Before our cottage door."

We would not bring her back to life
With word or charm or sign,
Nor yet recall to scenes of strife

A creature all divine;

We would not even ask to shred

One tress of golden gleam
That o'er that fair and perfect head

Sheds a refulgent beam.

No! Lay her with her shining hair

Around her flowing bright;

We would not keep of one so rare

Memorials in our sight.

Too harsh a shade would seem to lie

On all things here beneath If we beheld one token by

Of her who sleeps in death.

Hope, that buds in lover's heart,
Lives not through the scorn of years;
Time makes Love itself depart;
Time and scorn congeal the mind;
Looks unkind

Freeze affection's warmest tears.

Time shall make the bushes green:
Time dissolve the winter snow;
Winds be soft and skies serene;
Linnets sing their wonted strain;
But again

Blighted love shall never blow.

Translation of LORD STRANGFORD.

GALILEO.

WHY wrapped he not a martyr's robe

Around his lofty form?

Why bore he not with dauntless brow

The bursting of the storm? Why cringed the mind that proudly soared Where others gazed dismayed With servile will before the power

Whose grasp was on him laid?

They tell us it was fear that bowed

His mighty spirit when He stooped beneath the rusty links Of Superstition's chain; The dungeon-cell was dark, and light Was pleasant to his eye, And, holy tho' the truth, for it

He did not dare to die.

Fear! What had he to do with fear

Who ventured out abroad, Unpiloted, thro' pathless space By angels only trod— Who wandered with unfailing flight Creation's vastness o'er,