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FALL OF BABYLON.

Flows the wine, and swells the revel
Still in Bela's house of pride:
Hark the cry! 'tis but Euphrates,
Chiding with his rushing tide.

Live, Belshazzar! night is waning, Safety with the morning beams ! Where is now the boding prophet? Where the terror of his dreams?

Crown the goblet ! let it circle ;
Live, Belshazzar, king of men !
Hark! the murmur of the waters
Bursts upon the night again!

Morn is breaking ! lo, the summit
Kindles with his coming ray!
Brighter, clearer, now it flashes,
Bursting into sudden day.

'Tis not morning; darkness hovers
O’er the firmament afar;
Babylon, to death devoted,
Lightens with the blaze of war.

Arm we then! the blood of Ninus, 'Gainst the Persian, sword to sword !

FALL OF BABYLON.

'Tis not Persian triumphs o'er thee But the vengeance of the Lord.

" Yet the bridges ! broad Euphrates, Still protects us from the foe!" “God nath struck the mighty river, And its billows cease to flow."

A SERENADE.

BY EDWARD C. PINCKNEY.

Look out upon the stars, my love,

And shame them with thine eyes, On which, than on the lights above,

There hang more destinies. Night's beauty is the harmony

Of blending shades and light; Then, lady, up-look out, and be

A sister to the night!

Sleep not !-thine image wakes for aye,

Within my watching breast :
Sleep not !—from her soft sleep should fly,

Who robs all hearts of rest.
Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break,

And make this darkness gay
With looks, whose brightness well might make

Of darker nights a day.

TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE.

BY JONES VERY.

Bright image of the early years
When glowed my cheek as red as thou,

And life's dark throng of cares and fears
Were swift-winged shadows o'er my sunny brow!

Thou blushest from the painter's page,
Robed in the mimic tints of art;

But Nature's hand in youth's green age
With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart.

The morning's blush, she made it thine,
The morn's sweet breath, she gave it thee,
And in thy look, my Columbine !
Each fond-remembered spot she bade me see.

I see the hill's far-gazing head,
Where gay thou noddest in the gale;

I hear light-bounding footsteps tread
The grassy path that winds along the vale.

TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE.

I hear the voice of woodland song
Break from each bush and well-known tree,

And on light pinions borne along,
Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee.

O'er the dark rock the dashing brook,
With look of anger, leaps again,

And, hastening to each flowery nook,
Its distant voice is heard far down the glen.

Fair child of art! thy charms decay,
Touched by the withered hand of Time;

And hushed the music of that day,
When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime;

But on my heart thy cheek of bloom
Shall live when Nature's smile has fled;

And, rich with memory's sweet perfume,
Shall o'er her grave thy tribute incense shed.

There shalt thou live and wake the glee
That echoed on thy native hill ;

And when, loved flower! I think of thee,
My infant feet will seem to seek thee still.

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