Hence, also, after ages into stars

Transformed their heroes; and the warlike chief,
With fond eye fix'd on some resplendent gem,
Held converse with the spirits of his sires: -
With other eyes than these did Plato view
The heav'ns, and, fill'd with reasonings sublime,
Half pierc'd, at intervals, the mystery,
Which with the gospel vanish'd, and made way-
For noon-day brightness.

How beautiful upon the element

The Egyptian moonlight sleeps ;

The Arab on the bank hath pitch'd his tent;

The light wave dances, sparkling, o'er the deeps;

The tall reeds whisper in the gale,

And o'er the distant tide moves slow the silent sail.

Thou mighty Nile! and thou receding main,
How peacefully ye rest upon your shores,

Tainted no more, as when from Cairo's tow'rs,

Roll'd the swoln corse, by plague! the monster! slain.

Far as the eye can see around,

Upon the solitude of waters wide,

There is no sight, save of the restless tide

Save of the winds, and waves, there is no sound.

Egyptia sleeps, her sons in silence sleep!
Ill-fated land, upon thy rest they come
Th' invader, and his host. Behold the deep
Bears on her farthest verge a dusky gloom
And now they rise, the masted forests rise,

And gallants, through the foam, their way they make.
Stern Genius of the Memphian shores, awake—

The foeman in thy inmost harbour lies,

And ruin o'er thy land with brooding pennon flies.

GHOSTS of the dead, in grim array,
Surround the tyrant's nightly bed!
And in the still, distinctly say,

I by thy treach'ry bled.

And I, and I, ten thousands cry,

From Jaffa's plains, from Egypt's sands, They come, they raise the chorus high,

And whirl around in shrieking bands. Loud, and more loud, the clamours rise, "Lo! there the traitor! murderer! lies."

He murder'd me, he murder'd thee,

And now his bed, his rack shall be.

As when a thousand torrents roar,
Around his head their yells they pour.
The sweat-drops start, convulsion's hand
Binds every nerve in iron band.

'Tis done! they fly, the clamours die, The moon is up, tne night is calm, Man's busy broods in slumbers lie;

But horrors still the tyrant's soul alarm,

And ever and anon, serenely clear,

Have mercy, mercy, heaven! strikes on dull midnight's

ear.

ODE

ON THE DEATH OF THE Duke d'enghien.

WHAT means yon trampling! what that light
That glimmers in the inmost wood;

As tho' beneath the felon night,

It mark'd some deed of blood:

Behold yon figures dim descried
In dark array, they speechless glide.
The forest moans; the raven's scream
Swells slowly o'er the moated stream,
As from the castle's topmost tow'r,

It chants its boding song alone:

A song, that at this awful hour

Bears dismal tidings in its funeral tone;

Tidings, that in some grey domestic's ear
Will on his wakeful bed strike deep mysterious fear.

And, hark, that loud report! tis done;

There's murder couch'd in yonder gloom;

'Tis done, 'tis done! the prize is won, Another rival meets his doom.

The tyrant smiles, - with fell delight

The tyrant smiles; from terror freed,
Exulting in the foul misdeed,

And sternly in his secret breast

Marks out the victims next to fall.

His purpose fixed; their moments fly no more,

He points, the poniard knows its own;

Unseen it strikes,

unseen they die,

Foul midnight only hears, and shudders at the groan.

But justice yet shall lift her arm on high,

And Bourbon's blood no more ask vengeance from the sky.

SONNETS.