THE HOSTAGE. DAMON AND PYTHIAS.

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Gleam faintly where Syracuse' suburbs extend,
And the good Philodemus, his freedman and friend,
Now comes forward in tears to his master,
Who gathers despair from that face of disaster.

"Back, master! Preserve thine own life at the least!
His, I fear me, thou canst not redeem,
For the last rays of eventide beam :

Oh! though hour after hour travelled on to its goal,
He expected thy coming with confident soul:

And though mocked by the king as forsaken,
His trust in thy truth to the last was unshaken!"

"Eternal Avenger! and is it too late ?"

Cried the youth with a passionate fervour,
“And dare not I be his preserver ?

Then Death shall unite whom not Hell shall divide!
We will die, he and I, on the rood, side by side;
And the bloody Destroyer shall find

That there be souls whom friendship and honour can bind!"

And on, on, unresting, he bounds like a roe :
See! they lay the long cross on the ground!
See! the multitude gather all round!
See! already they hurry their victim along!
When with giant-like strength a man bursts through
the throng;

And-"Oh, stay, stay your hands!" is his cry;—
"I am come! I am here! I am ready to die!"

And astonishment masters the crowd at the sight,
While the friends in the arms of each other
Weep tears that they struggle to smother.
Embarrassed, the lictors and officers bring

The strange tidings at length to the ear of the king;
And a human emotion steals o'er him,

And he orders the Friends to be summoned before him.

And admiring, he looks at them long ere he speaks-
"You have conquered, O marvellous pair,
By a friendship as glorious as rare!
You have melted to flesh the hard heart in

my

breast!

Go in peace!-you are free! But accord one request
To my earnest entreaties and wishes-
Accept a third friend in your king, Dionysius.

TO A SKYLARK.

P. B. SHELLEY.

HAIL to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest,

Like a cloud of fire,

The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun

O'er which clouds are bright'ning,

Thou dost float and run,

Like an unbodied Joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight;

Like a star of heaven

In the broad daylight

Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:

Keen as are the arrows

Of that silver sphere,

Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear

Until we hardly see, we feel that it is here.

TO A SKYLARK.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud

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The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.

What thou art we know not;

What is most like thee?

From rainbow clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see

As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought

To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

Like a high-born maiden

In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden

Soul in secret hour

With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

Like a glow-worm golden

In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden

Its aerial hue

Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from

the view:

Like a rose embower'd

In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflower'd,

Till the scent it gives

Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged

thieves.

Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken'd flowers,

All that ever was

Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine:

I have never heard

Praise of love or wine

That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal

Or triumphal chaunt

Match'd with thine, would be all

But an empty vaunt

A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains

Of thy happy strain?

What fields, or waves, or mountains?

What shapes of sky or plain?

What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyance

Languor cannot be :

Shadow of annoyance

Never came near thee:

Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep

Thou of death must deem

Things more true and deep

Than we mortals dream,

Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after,

And pine for what is not:

Our sincerest laughter

With some pain is fraught;

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest

thought.

THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE.

Yet if we could scorn

Hate, and pride, and fear;

If we were things born

Not to shed a tear,

I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures

Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures

That in books are found,

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Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow

The world should listen then, as I am listening now!

THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE.

GERALD GRIFFIN.

THE joy-bells are ringing in gay Malahide,
The fresh wind is singing along the sea-side;
The maids are assembling with garlands of flowers,
And the harp-strings are trembling in all the glad
bowers.

Swell, swell the gay measure! roll trumpet and drum!

'Mid greetings of pleasure in splendour they come! The chancel is ready, the portal stands wide,

For the lord and the lady, the bridegroom and bride.

What years, ere the latter, of earthly delight,
The future shall scatter o'er them in its flight
What blissful caresses shall fortune bestow,

Ere those dark-flowing tresses fall white as the snow!