Ah, where were once her golden eyes, "Her beauteous wings of purple pride; *Concealed beneath a rude disguise, "A shapeless mass, to earth allied.

“Like thee this happy reptile lived,
"Like thee he toiled, like thee he spun;
“Like thine his closing hour arrived,
"His labour ceased, his web was done.

"And shalt thou, number'd with the dead,
"No happier state of being know?
"And shall no future morrow shed
"On thee a beam of brighter glow?

"Is this the bound of power divine,
"To animate an insect frame?
"Or may not he who moulded thine
"Relume at will the vital flame?

"Go, Mortal! in thy reptile state,

Enough to know to thee is given;

"Go, and the joyful truth relate,

"Frail child of earth, high heir of heaven!"

AND THOU ART DEAD.

Lord Byron..

AND thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;

And form su soft, and charms so rare,

Too soon returned to Earth!

Though Earth receiv'd them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,

There is an eye that could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.

I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;

There flowers or weeds at will may grow,

So I behold them not:

It is enough for me to prove

That what I lov'd, and long must love,

Like common earth can rot :

To me there needs no stone to tell, 'Tis nothing that I lov'd so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last
As fervently as thou,

Who didst not change through all the past,

And canst not alter now.

The love where Death has set his seal,

Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,

Nor falsehood disavow;

And, what were worse, thou canst not see Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

The better days of life were ours;

The worst can be but mine;

The sun that cheers, the storm that lours,
Shall never more be thine.

The silence of that dreamless sleep

I envy now too much to weep;

Nor need to repine

That all those charms have pass'd away,

I might have watch'd through long decay.

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd, Must fall the earliest prey;

Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
The leaves must drop away:

And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering leaf by leaf,
Than see it pluck'd to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.

I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;

The night that follow'd such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade.

Thy day without a cloud hath past,
And thou wert lovely to the last;
Extinguish'd, not decay'd;

As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high,

As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed;
To gaze (how fondly!) on thy face,
To hold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head;
And shew that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.

Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee!

The all of thine that cannot die,
Through dark and dread eternity,
Returns again to me;

And more thy buried love endears
Than aught, except its living years.

LINES WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA.

THAT Sky of clouds is not the sky
To light a lover to the pillow

Of her he loves

The swell of yonder foaming billow
Resembles not the happy sigh

That rapture moves.

Yet do I feel more tranquil far
Amidst the gloomy wilds of ocean,
In this dark hour,

Than when, in transport's young emotion,
I've stolen, beneath the evening star,
To Julia's bower.

Oh! there's a holy calm profound
In awe like this, that ne'er was given
To rapture's thrill;

'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven,

And the soul, listening to the sound,
Lies mute and still!

Moore.

"Tis true, it talks of danger nigh,

Of slumbering with the dead to-morrow,
In the cold deep,

Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow
No more shall wake the heart or eye,
But all must sleep!

Well! there are some, thou stormy bed,
To whom thy sleep would be a treasure ;
Oh! most to him,

Whose lip hath drain'd life's cup of pleasure,
Nor left one honey drop to shed

Round misery's brim.

Yes he can smile serene at death;

Kind heaven! do thou but chase the weeping
Of friends who love him,

Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping,
Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath
No more shall move him.

THE FIELD OF WATERLOO : DIRGE.

THEY sleep in the bosom of earth

All their high-breathing raptures are o'er; Their proud glory, their valour, their worth, In life's pilgrimage now are no more!

They sleep-and the strife of the field,

And the clangour of arms in its rage, With the sword, and the helmet, and shield, Their free spirits no longer engage.

Harral.