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Large, lofty, gorgeous, all that meets the

eye, Strong with the stamp of ancient majesty ; The impress which so undefined, yet clear, Tells that the former mighty have been there. All looking hoary pomp; the walls rich scroll’d, The roof high flourish'd, arras stiff with gold, In many a burning hue and broad festoon Wreathing those casements, blazon'd now with noon; The marble tablets on their silver claws, Loaded with nymph, and grace, and pix, and vase.

Beside the mirror foot, the Indian screen
Dazzling the eye with dragons red and green ;
The mighty mirror, brightning, doubling all,
In its deep crystal lit an endless hall.

The rout a moment paused, gave glance and smile,
Then scatter'd on, to wonder through the pile ;
Yet there was beauty in the very light
That round the chamber roll'd its gush of white;
And well the wanderer there might feel his gaze
Tranced by the bright creations of the blaze.

*

PERICLES AND ASPASIA.

This was the ruler of the land,

When Athens was the land of fame ;
This was the light that led the band,

When each was like a living flame :
The centre of earth's noblest ring,
Of more than men, the more than king!

Yet, not by fetter, nor by spear,

His sovereignty was held or won ;
Fear’d, -but alone as freemen fear;

Loved, but as freemen love alone :
He waved the sceptre o'er his kind,
By Nature's first great title-mind !

Resistless words were on his tongue ;

Then eloquence first flash'd below!
Full arm’d to life the portent sprung,

Minerva, from the thunderer's brow!
And his the sole, the sacred hand,
That shook her ægis o'er the land !

And thron'd immortal, by his side,

A woman sits, with eye sublime,--
Aspasia, all his spirit's bride ;

But if their solemn love were crime,
Pity the beauty and the sage,
Their crime was in their darken'd age.

He perish'd—but his wreath was won

He perish'd on his height of fame! Then sank the cloud on Athens' sun;

Yet still she conquer'd in his name. Fill'd with his soul, she could not dieHer conquest was posterity!

LINES WRITTEN AT SPITHEAD.

Hark to the knell !
It comes in the swell

Of the stormy ocean wave;
'Tis no earthly sound,
But a toll profound

From the mariner's deep sea grave.
When the billows dash,
And the signals flash,

And the thunder is on the gale ;
And the ocean is white
In its own wild light,

Deadly, and dismal, and pale.
When the lightning's blaze
Smites the seaman's gaze,

And the sea rolls in fire and in foam ;
And the surges' roar
Shakes the rocky shore,

We hear the sea-knell come.
There 'neath the billow,
The sand their pillow,

Ten thousand men lie low;
And still their dirge
Is sung by the surge,

When the stormy night-winds blow.
Sleep, warriors ! sleep
On your pillow deep

In peace ! for no mortal care,
No art can deceive,
No anguish can heave

The heart that once slumbers there.

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LEONIDAS. Shout for the mighty men

Who died along this shore,— Who died within this mountain glen! For never nobler chieftain's head Was laid on valour's crimson bed,

Nor ever prouder gore
Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day
Upon thy strand, Thermopylæ !
Shout for the mighty men,

Who on the Persian tents,
Like lions from their midnight den,
Bounding on the slumbering deer,
Rush'd-a storm of sword and spear-

Like the roused elements,
Let loose from an immortal hand,
To chasten or to crush a land !
But there are none to hear ;

Greece is a hopeless slave.
LEONIDAS ! no hand is near
To lift thy fiery falchion now :
No warrior makes the warrior's vow

Upon thy sea-wash'd grave.
The voice that should be raised by men,
Must now be given by wave and glen.
And it is given! the surge-

The tree-the rock—the sand-
On freedom's kneeling spirit urge,
In sounds that speak but to the free,
The memory of thine and thee!

The vision of thy band
Still gleams within the glorious dell,
Where their gore hallow'd, as it fell !
And is thy grandeur done?

Mother of men like these!
Has not thy outcry gone
Where Justice has an ear to hear ?
Be holy ! God shall guide thy spear ;

Till in thy crimson'd seas
Are plunged the chain and scimitar,
GREECE shall be a new-born star !

THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS.

It was the wild midnight,

A storm was on the sky; The lightning gave its light,

And the thunder echoed by.

The torrent swept the glen,

The ocean lash'd the shore ; Then rose the Spartan men,

To make their bed in gore !

Swift from the deluged ground

Three hundred took the shield; Then, silent, gather'd round

The leader of the field.

He spoke no warrior-word,

He bade no trumpet blow ; But the signal thunder roar’d,

And they rush'd upon the foe.

The fiery element

Show'd, with one mighty gleam, Rampart, and flag, and tent,

Like the spectres of a dream.

All up the mountain side,

All down the woody vale, All by the rolling tide

Waved the Persian banners pale.

And King Leonidas.

Among the slumbering band, Sprang foremost from the pass,

Like the lightning's living brand.

Then double darkness fell,

And the forest ceased its moan ; But there came a clash of steel,

And a distant, dying groan.

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