Slight are the outward signs of evil thought,
Within-within-'twas there the spirit wrought!
Love shows all changes-hate, ambition, guile,
Betray no further than the bitter smile;

The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown
Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone

Of deeper passions, and to judge their mien,
He who would see, must be himself unseen.
Then with the hurried tread, the upward eye,
The clenched hand, the pause of agony,
That listens, starting, lest the step too near
Approach intrusive on that mood of fear:
Then-with each feature working from the heart,
With feelings loosed to strengthen-not depart:
That rise-convulse-contend-that freeze, or glow,
Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow;
Then-stranger! if thou canst, and tremblest not,
Behold his soul-the rest that soothes his lot!
Mark-how that lone and blighted bosom sears
The scathing thought of execrated years!
Behold-but who hath seen, or e'er shall see,
Man as himself-the secret spirit free?

Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent To lead the guilty-guilt's worst instrumentHis soul was changed before his deeds had driven Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school, In words too wise, in conduct there a fool: Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe, He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, And not the traitors who betray'd him still; Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men Had left him joy, and means to give again. Fear'd-shunn'd-belied-ere youth had lost her force, He hated man too much to feel remorse,

And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call,

To pay the injuries of some on all.

He knew himself a villain-but he deem'd

The rest no better than the thing he seem'd,

And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid
Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did.
He knew himself detested, but he knew

The hearts that loath'd him, crouch'd and dreaded too.
Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt
From all affection, and from all contempt:
His name could sadden, and his acts surprise,
But they that fear'd him dared not to despise:
Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake
The slumbering venom of the folded snake;
The first may turn-but not avenge the blow;
The last expires-but leaves no living foe;
Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings,
And he may crush-not conquer-still it stings!

None are all evil-quickening round his heart,
One softer feeling would not yet depart:
Oft would he sneer at others as beguiled
By passions worthy of a fool or child;

Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove,
And even in him it asks the name of love!
Yes, it was

love-unchangeable-unchanged, Felt but for one from whom he never ranged; Though fairest captives daily met his eye,

He shunn'd nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by;
Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower,
None ever soothed his most unguarded hour.
Yes it was love-if thoughts of tenderness,
Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress,
Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime,
And yet-Oh more than all!-untired by time;
Which nor defeated hope nor baffled wile,
Could render sullen were she ne'er to smile,
Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent
On her one murmur of his discontent;

Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part,
Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart:
Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove-
If there be love in mortals-this was love!
He was a villain-ay-reproaches shower
On him-but not the passion, nor its power,

Which only proved all other virtues gone,
Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one!

The Mutineers of the Bounty after their Defeat

Stern, and aloof a little from the rest,
Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest.
The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue once spread
Along his cheek, was livid now as lead;
His light brown locks, so graceful in their flow,
Now rose like startled vipers o'er his brow.
Still as a statue, with his lips comprest
To stifle even the breath within his breast,
Fast by the rock, all menacing but mute,
He stood; and save a light beat of his foot,
Which deepen'd now and then the sandy dint
Beneath his heel, his form seem'd turn'd to flint.
Some paces further Torquil lean'd his head
Against a bank, and spoke not, but he bled-
Not mortally-his worst wound was within:
His brow was pale, his blue eyes sunken in,
And blood-drops sprinkled o'er his yellow hair
Show'd that his faintness came not from despair,
But nature's ebb. Beside him was another,
Rough as a bear, but willing as a brother,
Ben Bunting, who essay'd to wash, and wipe,
And bind his wound-then calmly lit his pipe,
A trophy which survived an hundred fights,
A beacon which had cheered ten thousand nights.
The fourth and last of this deserted group

Walk'd up and down-at times would stand, then stoop
To pick a pebble up-then let it drop-
Then hurry as in haste-then quickly stop-
Then cast his eyes on his companions-then
Half whistle half a tune, and pause again-
And then his former movements would redouble,
With something between carelessness and trouble
This is a long description, but applies

To scarce five minutes past before the eyes;

But yet what minutes! Moments like to these
Rend men's lives into immortalities.

The Curse of Minerva.

Pallas te hac vulnere, Pallas

Immolat, et pænam scelerato ex sanguine sumit.

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
Along Morea's hills the setting sun;

Not as in northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light!

O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows:
On old Ægina's rock, and Idra's isle,

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile;
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.
Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis!

Their azure arches through the long expanse,
More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance,
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven,
Till darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian cliffs he sinks to sleep.

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast,
When Athens! here thy wisest look'd his last;
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murder'd sage's latest day?
Not yet not yet-Sol pauses on the hill-
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
But sad his light to agonizing eyes,

And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes.

Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset (the hour of execution,) notwithstanding the entreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down.

Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour,
The land where Phoebus never frown'd before.
But ere he sunk below Citharon's head,
The cup of woe was quaff'd-the spirit fled;
The soul of him that scorn'd to fear or fly-
Who lived and died as none can live or die!

But lo! from high Hymetus to the plain,
The queen of night asserts her silent reign;*
No murky vapour, herald of the storm,

Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form;
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play,
There the white column greets her cheerful ray,
And bright around, with quivering beams beset,
Her emblems sparkle o'er the minaret;
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide
Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide.
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk, †
And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm,
Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm,
All tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye-
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by.

Again th' Egean, heard no more afar,
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war;
Again his waves in milder tints unfold
Their long array of sapphire and of gold,
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle,
That frown-where gentler ocean seems to smile.

As thus within the walls of Pallas' fane
I mark'd the beauties of the land and main,

The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our country; the days in winter are longer, but in summer of less duration.

The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house; the palm is without the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall intervenes. Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all.