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'Tis death's red banner streams on high.Fly to the rocks for shelter !-Fly! Lo! darkening o'er the fiery skies The pillars of the desert rise! On, in terrific grandeur wheeling, A giant host, the heavens concealing, They move like mighty genii-forms, Towering immense midst clouds and storms! Who shall escape! With awful force The whirlwind bears them on their course. They join-they rush resistless onThe landmarks of the plain are gone! The steps, the forms, from earth effaced Of those who trod the boundless waste! All whelmed !-All hushed!-None left to bear Sad record how they perished there! No stone their tale of death shall tell,The desert guards its mysteries well! And o'er the unfathomed sandy deep Where now their nameless relics sleep, Oft shall the future Pilgrim tread, Nor know his steps are on the dead! Constable's Edinburgh Magazine.

FROM PLATO.

BY THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

WHY dost thou gaze upon the sky?
Oh! that I were that spangled sphere,

And every star should be an eye

To wonder on thy beauties here!

In life thou wert my morning star,

But now that death hath stolen thy light,

Alas! thou shinest dim and far,

Like the pale beam that weeps at night.

THE BROKEN HEART.

And what's her history?

A blank, my Lord.

TWELFTH NIGHT.

YES! I remember well how beautiful
I used to think her, as she lay in slumber,
In the cool evening hour upon her couch,
Before the open lattice, which the vines

Half veiled with drooping wreaths-how like an angel
She looked with those soft gloomy ringlets,
And slight arched brow, and cheek of ivory,
Tinged with a blush of rose, bright, delicate
As that which paints the unfolded apple-blossom.

And yet, at times, what heavy sighs she breathed
In that so beautiful sleep! and from her eye-lids
Have wandered tears, like morning dew on roses.
'Twas sadness she was dying of!-deep-deep-
For which, on this earth, grew no healing balm.
And they had brought her from her ruder clime
To that sweet spot, where ever cloudless skies,

Pure gales, and smiling scenes, their influence shed,—
But not for her this influence:-she was then

'Past hope-past cure.'

They said her heart was broken ;—but a child,
I knew not, then, the meaning of that speech-
Yet never word, or murmur of regret,
Lingered upon that gentle lip. The spirit

Was weaned from this world, and it looked on high
In humble faith. The grave no terrors had
For one to whom existence had no charms.

Music alone still held it's witching o'er her;
And she would dwell for hours on the rich tones
She knew so well to draw forth from her lute,
As in the stillness of the night she loved
To mingle with them her soft voice, when all

But ceaseless, life-consuming sorrow, slept.
And, at those hours, how often used I wake
From my light sleep, and to the casement steal;
Then as the moon beam glittered on the Rhone,
The music of that voice and lute arose

In sighs of fragrance, and across the wave
Rung in strange sounds of harmony, as though

Some Spirit of Heaven his midnight hymn breathed there,
All on his angel watch as lone he lingered.

I do remember it well-though long, long past;
And-whether it was young imagination,

Or the enchantment of the scene and time,-
Such strains as those I never after heard.

She died and died unknown to all around,
Though many a look of fondness rested on her.
It was but a short moment fled her eyes
Had in expressive silence gazed upon
The glorious sun, that from a sky of gold
Went down in Majesty. Her earnest glance
Still lingered on its last light-(she then knew
The setting sun would rise for her-no more.)—
That last light faded,—vanished,—and she closed
Her heavy eyes, and back reclined her head,
As in soft sleep:-'twas an eternal sleep,
For she had died-unconscious all,-had died.
And there she lay, like some fair sculptured form,
Lovely, and pure, and pale, and motionless.

Literary Gazette.

ISABEL.

TO A DYING INFANT.

SLEEP, little baby! Sleep!
Not in thy cradle bed,
Not on thy mother's breast
Henceforth shall be thy rest,

But with the quiet dead.

Yes-with the quiet dead,
Baby, thy rest shall be!
Oh! many a weary wight,
Weary of life and light,

Would fain lie down with thee.

Flee little tender nursling!

Flee to thy grassy nest;

There the first flowers shall blow,

The first pure flake of snow

Shall fall upon thy breast.

Peace! Peace! The little bosom Labours with shortening breath :— Peace! Peace! That tremulous sigh Speaks his departure nigh !

Those are the damps of death.

I've seen thee in thy beauty,
A thing all health and glee;
But never then wert thou
So beautiful, as now,

Baby, thou seem'st to me!

Thine up-turned eyes glazed over,
Like hare-bells wet with dew;
Already veiled and hid

By the convulsed lid,

Their pupils darkly blue.

Thy little mouth half-open-
Thy soft lip quivering,
As if, like summer air
Ruffling the rose leaves, there
Thy soul was fluttering.

Mount up, immortal essence!

Young spirit, haste, depart!— And is this death!-Dread Thing?— If such thy visiting,

How beautiful thou art!

Oh! I could gaze for ever
Upon that waxen face:
So passionless, so pure !—
The little shrine was sure

An Angel's dwelling place.

Thou weepest, childless Mother!

Aye, weep 'twill ease thine heart ;

He was thy first-born-Son,

Thy first, thine only one,

"Tis hard from him to part!

"Tis hard to lay thy darling

Deep in the damp cold earth,—

His empty crib to see,

. His silent nursery,

Once gladsome with his mirth.

To meet again, in slumber,
His small mouth's rosy kiss;

Then, wakened with a start
By thine own throbbing heart,
His twining arms to miss!

To feel (half conscious why,)
A dull, heart-sinking weight,

T

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