Slike strani


In the strength of his shields, the Assyrian comes down,
The earth, with her rivers and mountains, his own.

comes, like a giant refresh'd with new wine,
Exulting in strength, while his men of war shine.
In the pride of his heart to the fight he advances,
The wilderness flames with the gleam of his lances ;
The son of the forest, with howling affright,
Starts from the blaze to the darkness of night.
Like the roaring of waters, like bellowing of storm,
Like dark rolling clouds, to the combat they form;
And hurling their foes to the torrents of hell,
Triumphing sing to the glory of Bel.”

“ Look to the king ! look to the lord !

Starting from the banquet board.”
Pale, and motionless, as monumental stone,

The cold flesh quivers on the bone.
The sparkless eye upon the wall is raised,

There rivetted—it gazes glazed.
What can Assyria's greatness thus appall ?
A sever'd hand is moving on that wall-
A sever'd hand, in deep mysterious gloom,

Traces the characters of doom.

O'er all that gorgeous room,
'Tis the deep hush of terror—and the breath
Already owns the chilling touch of death.

Chaldea's Seers, agbast,
Confess their science past.
Those characters remain

Belshazzar's bane !

VIII. The hoary Hebrew came, Upon his lips the prophet's flame

Burning in brightness. His form is feeble, slow his

pace, Wild ringlets shade his aged face,

Reverend in whiteness.

He saw, he read, he spoke ;
And all delirious, from his quiet broke.

As the arrow from the bow,
As the fish that flies the foe,
As the gush of Horeb flow'd,
As the lightning from the cloud,

Starts he to life,
Convulsive with prophetic strife.
His eye, where Age her film had drawn, ,

Flashes the flame of its glances ;
His old, worn form, all animated shone,

Kindled and wild he advances ;

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“ Belshazzar! Son of the morning,

How art thou fall’n !
From thy bright path above, resplendently burning,

To the waters art thou roll'n!
Thy branches all blooming, thy garden perfuming,

Flames are consuming.
Babylon weeps o'er her portion of sorrow,
The ruin of Sodom, the curse of Gomorrah.

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“ O king! I see the day of visitation,
Thy perish'd kingdom, and thy scattered nation!

I hear the mournful sound,
The lonely sound that lingers in these walls ;
Stone after stone, on column column falls,
And desolation blackens all around.

The spider's web hangs on thy panoply;
The lizard creeps in thy goblet of amber;
The wild fox nests in thy bed-chamber,

Owls in thy canopy.
Where glitter'd thy palaces-vaunted thy walls,
From her sedge-cover'd plashes the bittern calls.

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“ The earth is at rest, and breaks forth into singing,
A wild bird untrammell'd to liberty springing.
The cedars of Lebanon lift up their voice,
And, waving their hundred arms, o'er thee rejoice.
O! hills,of Gilboa! now raise ye


The harp, and the tabret, and young maiden throng.
See! Jordan flows brightly, with merry waves leaping,
And Carmel the smiling of thankfulness wears.
Fair daughter of sorrow! arise from thy weeping,
Come forth in thy beauty, O! Salem of tears!"

“ Thou-king of terrors ! lord of death and doom!
Where shalt thou fly, from the curse of thy gloom?
The bright lights of heaven are quench'd on thy path,
Its angels anoint thee with vials of wrath !
Earth trembles beneath thee, heaven totters on high,
Where, wretched outcast! where wilt thou fly?
Hell yawns to receive thee, it stirs up the dead-
All griesly the spectre kings leap from their bed;
• Art thou weak as we?' they ask in fell mirth,
• Who didst scatter, like dust, the throne of the earth?


Go-King of Babel-this night is thy last,
Thy kingdom is weighed, found wanting, and past.”
The prophet fell bloodless, exhausted, and pale,
But terror yet echoed his soothsaying tale.


From the German of Schiller.


In ancient times, when Genoa had rebellid,

And from its walls the Prince expell’d,

Fiesco, at the iosurgents' head,
Who, as he will’d, their factious spirit led,

The commons thus addresa'd, On their new state assembled to decide :• With your good leave, I will relate to you What happen'd to the beasts, like you oppress'd ?"“ Speak, speak, Fiesco," cry'd the motley crew, -“Weary with anarchy and civil broils, And sadly living on each others spoils,

In desperate hope to be protected, A Bull Dog for their Sovereign they elected. His reign was short. To blood and rapine bred, He on their very bones and marrow fed ; Till one more bold and generous than the rest, Deposed and slew the sanguinary beast.

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Goats, Pigeons, Sheep, and all the reptile race,
Resolve to sue for ignominious peace.
Cowards and Fools outvote the wise and brave,
And men their unprotected haunts surprise :
What would you in this crisis have decreed ?
“Why, that the best," they cry,“ should take the lead.”

“ Just what they did--an aristocracy
This government is call’d—But see

The consequence—The general good
Gave way to private interest, and all stood,
Not for his fellow-creatures, but himself:
Then first was known the sordid lust of pelf.
Foxes, Curs, Cats, purloin'd the common stock,
The Wolf devour'd at will the helpless flock.

Asses, ambassadors were sent,

A Stag to lead their armies went;
All was oppression, plunder, weakness, wrong;

Till, with one voice, the indignant throng,
Able to bear no more, resolved to have
A King, at once sagacious, generous, brave.
The Lion in a word.” The rabble rout,

Rending the air with hideous shout,
Exclaim—“Huzza! the Lion is the thing!
Huzza! Huzza! Fiesco shall be King ?"



A literary friend of ours received these verses, with a letter of the following tenor:

A very ingenious young friend of mine has just sent me the enclosed on reddie Waverley.-- To you, the world gives that charming work; and if in any future editws you should like to insert the Dirge to the Highland Chief, you would do honour to

“ Your sincere Admirer."

The individual to whom this obliging letter was addressed, having no claim to the bo

nour which is there done him, does not possess the means of publishing the verses in the popular novel alluded to. But, that the public may sustain no loss, and that the ingenious author of Waverley may be aware of the honour intended hin, our correspondent has ventured to send the verses to our Register.

Son of the mighty and the free!
Loved leader of the faithful brave !
Was it for high-rank'd chief like thee,
To fill a nameless grave !

Oh, had'st thou slumber'd with the slain,
Had glory's death-bed been thy lot,
E’en though or red Culloden's plain,

We then had mourn'd thee not!

But darkly closed thy morn of fame,
That morn whose sunbeam rose so fair,
Revenge alone may breathe thy name,

The watch-word of despair !
Yet oh! if gallant spirit's power
Has e'er ennobled death like thine,
Then glory mark'd thy parting hour,

Last of a mighty line!

O’er thy own bowers the sunshine falls,
But cannot cheer their lonely gloom,
Those beams, that gild thy native walls,

Are sleeping on thy tomb.
Spring on thy mountains laughs the while,
Thy green woods wave in vernal air,
But the loved scenes may vainly smile,

Not e’en thy dust is there!

On thy blue hills no bugle sound
Is niingling with the torrent's roar;
Unmark'd the red deer sport around,

Thou lead'st the chase no more.
Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still,
Those halls where swelld the choral strain,
They hear the wild winds murmuring shrill,

And all is hush'd again.

Thy bard his pealing harp has broke,
His fire, his joy of song is past;
One lay to mourn thy fate he woke,

His saddest arid his last :
No other theme to him was dear,

Than lofty deeds of thine ;
Hush'd be the strain thou can'st not hear,

Last of a mighty line!


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