Still o'er their drowning bodies press New victims quick and numberless; Till scarce an arm in Hafed's band,

So fierce their toil, hath power to stir, But listless from each crimson hand

The sword hangs, clogg'd with massacre.

Never was horde of tyrants met
With bloodier welcome-never yet
To patriot vengeance hath the sword
More terrible libations pour'd!

All up the dreary, long ravine,
By the red, murky glimmer seen

Of half-quench'd brands, that o'er the flood
Lie scatter'd round and burn in blood,
What ruin glares! what carnage swims!
Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs,
Lost swords that, dropp'd from many a hand,
In that thick pool of slaughter stand;—
Wretches who wading, half on fire

From the toss'd brands that round them fly, "Twixt flood and flame in shrieks expire:

And some who, grasp'd by those that die,
Sink woundless with them, smother'd o'er
In their dead brethren's gushing gore!
But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed,
Still hundreds, thousands more succeed :-
Countless as towards some flame at night
The north's dark insects wing their flight,
And quench or perish in its light,
To this terrific spot they pour-
Till, bridged with Moslem bodies o'er,
It bears aloft their slippery tread,
And o'er the dying and the dead,
Tremendous causeway! on they pass.—
Then, hapless Ghebers, then, alas,

What hope was left for you? for you,
Whose yet warm pile of sacrifice
Is smoking in their vengeful eyes-

Whose swords how keen, how fierce they knew,
And burn with shame to find how few.
Crush'd down by that vast multitude,
Some found their graves where first they stood;
While some with hardier struggle died,
And still fought on by Hafed's side,
Who, fronting to the foe, trod back
Towards the high towers his gory track;
And, as a lion, swept away

By sudden swell of Jordan's pride
From the wild covert where he lay,
Long battles with the o'erwhelming tide,
So fought he back with fierce delay,
And kept both foes and fate at bay.
But whither now? their track is lost,
Their prey escaped-guide, torches gone-
By torrent-beds and labyrinths crost,

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The scatter'd crowd rush blindly on

Curse on those tardy lights that wind,"

They panting cry, "so far behind-
Oh for a bloodhound's precious scent

To track the way the Gheber went!"
Vain wish-confusedly along

They rush, more desperate as more wrong:
Till, wilder'd by the far-off lights,
Yet glittering up those gloomy heights,

Their footing, mazed and lost, they miss,
And down the darkling precipice
Are dash'd into the deep abyss:
Or midway hang, impaled on rocks,

A banquet, yet alive, for flocks

Of ravening vultures-while the dell
Re-echoes with each horrid yell.

Those sounds-the last, to vengeance dear, That e'er shall ring in Hafed's ear,Now reach him, as aloft, alone, Upon the steep way breathless thrown, He lay beside his reeking blade,

Resign'd, as if life's task were o'er,
Its last blood-offering amply paid,

And Iran's self could claim no more.
One only thought, one lingering beam
Now broke across his dizzy dream
Of pain and weariness-'t was she,
His heart's pure planet, shining yet
Above the waste of memory,

When all life's other lights were set.
And never to his mind before,
Her image such enchantment wore.
It seem'd as if each thought that stain'd,
Each fear that chill'd their loves was past,
And not one cloud of earth remain'd

Between him and her glory cast;

As if to charms, before so bright,
New grace from other worlds was given,
And his soul saw her by the light

Now breaking o'er itself from heaven!

A voice spoke near him-'t was the tone
Of a loved friend, the only one

Of all his warriors left with life
From that short night's tremendous strife.-
"And must we then, my chief, die here?-
Foes round us, and the shrine so near?"
These words have roused the last remains
Of life within him-" what! not vet
Beyond the reach of Moslem chains?"-

The thought could make e'en death forget His icy bondage-with a bound

He springs, all bleeding, from the ground,
And grasps his comrade's arm, now grown
E'en feebler, heavier than his own,
And faintly up the pathway leads,
Death gaining on each step he treads.
Speed them, thou God, who heard'st their vow?
They mount-they bleed-oh save them now-
The crags are red they've clamber'd o'e,
The rock-weeds dripping with their gore-
Thy blade too. Hafed, false at length,
Now breaks beneath thy tottering strength-
Haste, haste-the voices of the foe
Come near and nearer from below-
One effort more-thank Heaven! 'tis past,
They've gain'd the topmost steep at last.
And now they touch the temple's walls,
Now Hafed sees the Fire divine-
When, lo! his weak, worn comrade falls
Dead on the threshold of the shrine.
"Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled!

And must I leave thee withering here,

The sport of every ruffian's tread,

The mark for every coward's spear?
No, by yon altar's sacred beams!"
He cries, and with a strength that seems
Not of this world, uplifts the frame

Of the fallen chief, and towards the flame
Bears him along;—with death-damp hand
The corpse upon the pyre he lays,
Then lights the consecrated brand,

And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze, Like lightning bursts o'er Oman's sea.-

"Now, freedom's God! I come to Thee," The youth exclaims, and with a smile Of triumph vaulting on the pile, In that last effort, ere the fires Have harm'd one glorious limb, expires!

What shriek was that on Oman's tide?
It came from yonder drifting bark,
That just has caught upon her side

The death-light-and again is dark.
It is the boat-ah, why delay'd?-
That bears the wretched Moslem maid
Confided to the watchful care

Of a small veteran band, with whom
Their generous chieftain would not share
The secret of his final doom;
But hoped when Hinda, safe and free,
Was render'd to her father's eyes,
Their pardon, full and prompt, would be

The ransom of so dear a prize.
Unconscious, thus, of Hafed's fate,
And proud to guard their beauteous freight,
Scarce had they clear'd the surfy waves
That foam around those frightful caves,
When the curst war-whoops, known so well,
Come echoing from the distant dell-
Sudden each oar, upheld and still,

Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side, And, driving at the current's will,

They rock'd along the whispering tide, While every eye, in mute dismay,

Was toward that fatal mountain turn'd,
Where the dim altar's quivering ray

As yet all lone and tranquil burn'd,
Oh! 'tis not, Hinda, in the power
Of fancy's most terrific touch,

To paint thy pangs in that dread hour-
Thy silent agony-'t was such
As those who feel could paint too well,
But none e'er felt and lived to tell!
'T was not alone the dreary state
Of a lorn spirit, crush'd by fate,
When, though no more remains to dread,
The panic chill will not depart ;—
When, though the mate hope be dead,

Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart.
No-pleasures, hopes, affections gone,
The wretch may bear, and yet live on,
Like things within the cold rock found
Alive, when all's congeal'd around.
But there's a blank repose in this,
A calm stagnation, that were bliss
To the keen, burning, harrowing pain,
Now felt through all thy breast and brain—

That spasm of terror, mute, intense,
That breathless, agonized suspense,
From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching
The heart hath no relief but breaking!

Calm is the wave-heaven's brilliant lights,
Reflected dance beneath the prow;-
Time was when, on such lovely nights,
She who is there, so desolate now,
Could sit all cheerful, though alone,

And ask no happier joy than seeing
That star-light o'er the waters thrown-
No joy but that to make her blest,

And the fresh, buoyant sense of being That bounds in youth's yet careless breastItself a star, not borrowing light, But in its own glad essence bright. How different now!-but, hark, again The yell of havoc rings-brave men! In vain, with beating hearts, ye stand On the bark's edge-in vain each hand Half draws the falchion from its sheath;

All's o'er-in rust your blades may lie:
He, at whose word they've scatter'd death,
E'en now, this night, himself must die!
Well may ye look to yon dim tower,
And ask, and wondering guess what means
The battle-cry at this dead hour-

Ah! she could tell you-she, who leans
Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast,
With brow against the dew-cold mast-
Too well she knows-her more than life,
Her soul's first idol and its last,

Lies bleeding in that murderous strife.
But see what moves upon the height?
Some signal!-'tis a torch's light.

What bodes its solitary glare?
In gasping silence toward the shrine
All eyes are turn'd-thine, Hinda, thine

Fix their last failing life-beam there.
"I was but a moment-fierce and high
The death-pile blazed into the sky,
And far away o'er rock and flood

Its melancholy radiance sent;
While Hafed, like a vision, stood
Reveal'd before the burning pyre,
Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire,

Shrined in its own grand element!
""Tis he !"-the shuddering maid exclaims,-
But, while she speaks, he's seen no more;
High burst in air the funeral flames,
And Iran's hopes and hers are o'er!

One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave-
Then sprung, as if to reach the blaze,
Where still she fix'd her dying gaze,
And, gazing, sunk into the wave,-
Deep, deep,-where never care or pain
Shall reach her innocent heart again!

FAREWELL-farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea :) No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water, More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee.

Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,

How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, Like the wind of the south o'er a summer lute blowing,

And hush'd all its music and wither'd its frame!

But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands,
Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom.
Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands,
With nought but the sea-star to light up her tomb.
And still, when the merry date-season is burning,
And calls to the palm-groves the young and the
old,

The happiest there, from their pastime returning,
At sunset, will weep when thy story is told.
The young village maid, when with flowers she
dresses

Her dark flowing hair for some festival day,
Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses,
She mournfully turns from the mirror away.
Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero! forget thee,-
Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start,
Close, close by the side of that hero she'll set thee,
Embalm'd in the innermost shrine of her heart.
Farewell-be it ours to embellish thy pillow
With every thing beauteous that grows in the
deep;

Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber

That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept; With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath'd

chamber

We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept. We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head; We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling,

And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. Farewell-farewell-until pity's sweet fountain Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They'll weep for the chieftain who died on that mountain, [wave.

They'll weep for the maiden who sleeps in this

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS.

THE harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts that once beat high for praise

Now feel that pulse no more!

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;

The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.

OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.

OFT, in the stilly night,

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond memory brings the light

Of other days around me;
The smiles, the tears,

Of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,

Now dimm'd and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends, so link'd together,
I've seen around me fall,

Like leaves in wintry weather;
I feel like one

Who treads alone,
Some banquet hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garland's dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

SACRED SONG.

THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine;
My temple, Lord! that arch of thine;
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.
My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murmuring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,

Even more than music, breathes of Thee!

I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,
All light and silence, like thy throne!
And the pale stars shall be, at night,
The only eyes that watch my rite.
Thy heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
When I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of thy wondrous name.

I'll read thy anger in the rack
That clouds awhile the day-beam's track ;
Thy mercy in the azure hue

Of sunny brightness breaking through!
There's nothing bright, above, below,
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light my soul can see
Some feature of the Deity!
There's nothing dark, below, above,
But in its gloom I trace thy love,
And meekly wait that moment when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again!

HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED?

HAS sorrow thy young days shaded,
As clouds o'er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded.
That even in sorrow were sweet.
Does Time, with his cold wing, wither
Each feeling that once was dear?
Come, child of misfortune! hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has love to that soul so tender,

Been like our Lagenian mine? Where sparkles of golden splendour All over the surface shine. But if in pursuit we go deeper,

Allured by the gleam that shone, Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper, Like love, the bright ore is gone.

Has hope, like the bird in the story
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory-
Has hope been that bird to thee?
On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display;
And, when nearest and most inviting,
Then waft the fair gem away?

If thus the sweet hours have fleeted,
When sorrow herself look'd bright;
If thus the fond hope has cheated,
That led thee along so light;
If thus, too, the cold world wither
Each feeling that once was dear,-
Come, child of misfortune! hither,
I'll weep with thee tear for tear.

OH NO! NOT EVEN WHEN FIRST WE LOVED.

Oн, no!-not e'en when first we loved,
Wert thou as dear as now thou art;

Thy beauty then my senses moved,
But now thy virtues bind my heart.
What was but passion's sigh before,

Has since been turn'd to reason's vow; And though I then might love thee more, Trust me, I love thee better now!

Although my heart, in earlier youth,
Might kindle with more wild desire;
Believe me,
it has gain'd in truth
Much more than it has lost in fire.
The flame now warms my inmost core
That then but sparkled on my brow;
And though I seem'd to love thee more,
Yet, oh, I love thee better now!"

THE author of "Lacon" was educated at Cambridge, where, in 1801, being then in the twenty-fifth year of his age, he obtained a fellowship. He took orders, and was presented with the livings of Tiverton, Kew and Petersham. These, with his fellowship, produced a liberal income, but his necessities or eccentricities caused him to reside in an obscure garret, where he wrote the most celebrated of his works, "Lacon, or Many Things in Few Words." By this he acquired considerable reputation, and his disappearance soon after, on the murder of WEARE, a person with whom he was supposed to have had some gambling transactions, induced a rumour that he had been assassinated. He left England however only to avoid his creditors, and came to America. Here, under an assumed name, he remained two years, at the end of which time he went to France, where he continued to reside for the residue of his life.

In Paris, he devoted himself to literature, gambling, and trade in pictures and wine. He wrote the celebrated letters in the London Morning Chronicle, signed O. P. Q.,* which attracted so much attention during the time of the Greek revolution, and several pamphlets on French politics and the state of Europe. He was deprived of his church livings for nonresidence, but is said to have more than supplied the loss with his cards and dice. He committed suicide, at Fontainebleau, in the summer of 1832.

The habits of Mr. COLTON, in his most prosperous days, were peculiar. A friend who visited his lodgings in London, when he was in the zenith of his reputation, describes them as the most singular and ill-furnished apartments he had ever seen. Keeping no servant, he swept his own floors, and lighted his own fires. He had but a single chair fit for use, but his closet was always stored with wines and cigars of the finest qualities, and he

received his guests therefore without a thought

This signature was subsequently used by a letterwriter of inferior abilities. Mr. COLTON's correspondence ended we believe in 1831.

of apologies for the meanness of his rooms. Notwithstanding his dissolute life, few men were ever more earnest and constant in their advocacy of virtue; and the eloquence and energy with which he delivered his public discourses, sometimes led his parishioners to think he had reformed his morals. On one occasion, he surprised his congregation by a sermon of extraordinary power, uttered with the most serious and impressive voice and gesture; but on leaving the pulpit, with gun in hand, he joined his dogs, and drove to the house of a sporting friend in the neighbourhood, to be ready for the next day's chase.

"Lacon" is doubtless a work of great merit, but the germs of many of its ideas may be found in BACON and other authors, and some of its passages are commonplace in both thought and diction. Mr. COLTON's other productions are " A Narrative of the Sampford Ghost," "Remarks on the Talents of Lord Byron and the Tendencies of Don Juan,” poems entitled "Napoleon," "The Confiagration of Moscow," and "Hypocrisy;" and "Modern Antiquity, and other Lyrical Pieces," published after his death. They are very unequal, and are marked sometimes by a redundancy of epithets, at others by a condensation which renders them unintelligible, and nearly always by a straining after effect and antithesis. One of the finest of his pieces is that beginning

"How long shall man's imprison'd spirit groan ?" which was written but a few weeks before he entered unbidden the presence of Him of whose laws he was so conspicuous a teacher and violator.

Mr. COLTON's political writings are among the most powerful and original essays in the language, but they were on subjects of temporary interest, and are forgotten. No work of its kind ever attracted more universal or

lasting regard than "Lacon;" but with a perversity of judgment not without parallel in the histories of men of genius, he regarded Hypocrisy" as the most perfect and enduring of his productions.

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