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WRITTEN BENEATH THE HEAD OF TYRTEUS.

GLORIOUS Bard! whose Lyre was heard

Amid the armed ring,

As victory were upon each word

And death on every string!—
Glorious Bard! to whom belong
Wreaths not often claimed by song,-
Those hung round the warrior's shield-
Laurels from the blood-red field.
The soldier cowered beneath his tent,
His sword all rust, his bow unbent;
His comrades, who had dared to die,
Unburied on the plain,

And, jeered by mocking foemen nigh,
He dared not taunt again.

The Bard took up his burning song ;

Each heart beat high, each arm grew strong:
He told them of the curse and shame

That darken round the coward's name;

Told how the mother's cheek would burn

To hear her son had fled,

How the young maiden's smile would turn
To tears, should it be said,-

'The war strength of thy lover's brand
Is weaker than thine own fair hand;'
And proudly rung his harp while telling
The fallen warrior's fame,

When trumpet, shout, and song are swelling
All glorious with his name.

It was enough.—Each sword was out,

The mountains trembled in the shout

Of men prepared like men to die

For Sparta and for victory!

Literary Gazette.

L. E. L.

BALAK AND BALAAM.

UPON the hill the Prophet stood;

King Balak in the rocky vale,
Around him, like a fiery flood,

Flashed to the Sun his men of mail.

'Twas Morn ;-'twas Noon ;-the sacrifice
Still rolled its sheeted flame to Heaven;
Still on the prophet turned their eyes,
Nor yet the fearful CURSE' was given.

'Twas Eve;-the flame was feeble now,
Dried was the victim's purple blood;
The Sun was rushing broad and low
Upon the murmuring multitude.

'Now Curse, or die'-The gathering roar
Around him, like a tempest, came;
Again the altar streamed with gore;
And blushed again the sky with flame.

The Prophet was in prayer; he rose,
His mantle from his face he flung;
He listened, where the mighty foes
To Heaven their evening anthem sung.

He saw their camp, like endless clouds, Mixed with the horizon's distant blue; Saw on the plain their marshalled crowds; Heard the high strain their trumpets blew.

A sudden spirit on him came,

A sudden fire was in his eye;

His tongue was touched with hallowed flame, The Curser' swelled with prophecy.

"How shall I curse whom God hath blessed? With whom he dwells, with whom shall dwell!' He clasped his pale hands on his breast, 'Then, be thou blest, O Israel!'

'Be Israel cursed,' was in his soul,
But on his lip the wild words died;
He paused, till on its myriads stole
The night; again the 'Curse' he tried.

A whirlwind from the desart rushed,
Deep thunder echoed round the hill;
King, prophet, multitude, were hushed;
The thunder sank, the blast was still!

Broad in the East a new-born STAR
On cloud, hill, desart, poured its blaze!
The prophet knew the SIGN afar,
And on it fixed his shuddering gaze.

'I shall behold it, but not now!
I shall behold him, but not nigh!
He comes to break the Oppressor's bow,
To triumph, suffer, weep, and die !

'All power is in his hand; the world
Is dust beneath his trampling heel;
The thunder from his lips is hurled,
The Heavens beneath his presence reel.

'He comes, a stranger to his own!

With the wild bird and fox he lies

The King! who makes the stars his throne,

A wanderer lives-an outcast dies!

'Proud Israel! o'er thy diadem

What blood shall for his blood be poured!

Until that Star again shall beam,

Again JEHOVAH be the Lord!'

The Prophet ceased in awe; the STAR
Rose broader o'er the boundless plain,
Flashing on Balak's marshalled war,
On mighty Israel's farthest vane.

And sweet and solemn echoes flowed
From lips of more than mortals given;
Till in the central cope it glowed,

Then vanished in the heights of Heaven!

New Times.

THE EYE.

WHAT is the little lurking spell

?

That hovers round the eye
Without a voice, a word can tell
The feelings as they fly.

When tearless-it can speak of woe;
When weeping-still the same;
Or in a moment, catch the glow
Of thoughts without a name.

Can beam with pity on the poor-
With anger on the proud

Can tell that it will much endure-
Or flash upon the crowd!

Now brightly raised, or now depressed

With every shade of feeling

It is the mirror of the breast

The thought, the soul revealing!

Oh! tones are false-and words are weak

The tutored slaves at call

The eye-the eye alone can speak

Unfettered-tell us all!

PULCI

J.

THE CUP OF CIRCE.

All have drank of the eup of the enchantress.

SHE sat a crowned Queen-the ruby's light
Gleamed like a red star on the dark midnight
Amid her curls; but as they downward fell
To meet her ivory neck's luxuriant swell,
Some roses twined around the flowing hair-
Fair roses yet her neck was far more fair:
They were in summer perfume, and they gave
Fresh fragrance forth at each light tress's wave.
Her cheek was crimson beauty, and her eye
Flashed light upon its varying brilliancy.
There was a spell in those dark eyes, and all
Bent joyfully beneath its radiant thrall:

Their power was on the heart. One white hand raised
A sparkling vase, where gold and opals blazed
Only less glorious than their starry eyes;
(How sweet the incensed breathings that arise
From that enchanted cup!) and she the while
Held the bright poison with a witching smile.
All gathered round. I marked a fair child stop
And kiss the purple bubbles from the top;

A white haired man, too, hung upon the brim—
Oh! that such pleasure should have charms for him-
And by his side a girl, whose blue eyes, bent
On the seducer, looked too innocent

For passion's madness;-but love's soul was there-
And for young love what will not woman dare!
There was a warrior-oh, the chain was sweet
That bound him prisoner to the Circe's feet:
He knelt and gazed upon her beauty; she
Smiled, and received his wild idolatry;

Then sighed that low sweet sigh, whose tender tone

Is witching, from its echo of our own.

The painter's skill has seized a moment where

Her hand is wreathing mid his raven hair;

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