JACOB'S DREAM.

FROM A PICTURE BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON, A. R. A.

THE sun was sinking on the mountain zone
That guards thy vales of beauty, Palestine!
And lovely from the desert rose the moon,
Yet lingering on the horizon's purple line,
Like a pure spirit o'er its earthly shrine.
Up Padan-aram's height abrupt and bare
A pilgrim toil'd, and oft on day's decline
Look'd pale, then paused for eve's delicious air,
The summit gain'd, he knelt, and breathed his
evening prayer.

He spread his cloak and slumber'd—darkness fell
Upon the twilight hills; a sudden sound
Of silver trumpets o'er him seem'd to swell;
Clouds heavy with the tempest gather'd round;
Yet was the whirlwind in its caverns bound;
Still deeper roll'd the darkness from on high,
Gigantic volume upon volume wound;
Above, a pillar shooting to the sky,
Below, a mighty sea, that spread incessantly.
Voices are heard-a choir of golden strings,
Low winds, whose breath is loaded with the rose;
Then chariot-wheels-the nearer rush of wings;
Pale lightning round the dark pavilion glows,
It thunders-the resplendent gates unclose;
Far as the eye can glance, op height o'er height,
Rise fiery waving wings, and star-crown'd brows,
Millions on millions, brighter and more bright,
Till all is lost in one supreme, unmingled light.
But, two beside the sleeping pilgrim stand,
Like cherub kings, with lifted, mighty plume,
Fix'd, sunbright eyes, and looks of high command:
They tell the patriarch of his glorious doom;
Father of countless myriads that shall come,
Sweeping the land like billows of the sea,
Bright as the stars of heaven from twilight's gloom,
Till He is given whom angels long to see,
And Israel's splendid line is crown'd with Deity.

AN AURORA BOREALIS.

-LAST night I could not rest: the chamber's heat, Or some wild thoughts-the folly of the day Banish'd my sleep: So, in the garden air, I gazed upon the comet, that then shone In midnight glory, dimming all the stars. At once a crimson blaze, that made it pale, Flooded the north. I turn'd, and saw in heaven Two mighty armies! From the zenith star, Down to the earth, legions in line and orb, Squadron and square, like earthly marshalry. Anon, as if a sudden trumpet spoke, Banners of gold and purple were flung out; Fire-crested leaders swept along the lines; And both the gorgeous depths, like meeting seas, Roll'd to wild battle. Then, they breathed awhile, Leaving the space between a sheet of gore, Strew'd with torn standards, corpses, and crash'd

spears:

I HAD a vision: evening sat in gold
Upon the bosom of a boundless plain,
Cover'd with beauty ;-garden, field, and fold,
Studding the billowy sweep of ripening grain,
Like islands in the purple summer main.
And temples of pure marble met the sun,
That tinged their white shafts with a golden stain;
And sounds of rustic joy, and labour done,
Hallow'd the lovely hour, until her pomp was gone.

The plain was hush'd in twilight, as a child
Slumbers beneath its slow drawn canopy;
But sudden tramplings came, and voices wild,
And tossings of rude weapons caught the eye;
And on the hills, like meteors in the sky,
Burst sanguine fires, and ever and anon
To the clash'd spears the horn gave fierce reply;
And round their beacons trooping thousandsshone,
Then sank, like evil things, and all was dark and

lone.

"Twas midnight; there was wrath in that wild heaven:

Earth was sepulchral dark. At once a roar
Peal'd round the mountain tops, like ocean driven
Before the thunders on the eternal shore:
Down rush'd, as if a sudden earthquake tore
The bowels of the hills-a flood of fire:
Like lava, mingled spears and torches pour,
The plain is deluged, higher still and higher
Swell blood and flame, till all is like one mighty pyre.

"Twas dawn, and still the black and bloody smoke
Roll'd o'er the champaign like a vault of stone:
But as the sun's slow wheels the barrier broke,
He lit the image of a fearful one,
Throned in the central massacre, alone-
An iron diadem upon his brow,

A naked lance beside him, that yet shone
Purple and warm with gore, and crouching low,
All men in one huge chain, alike the friend and foe.

The land around him, in that sickly light, Show'd like the upturning of a mighty grave; Strewn with crush'd monuments, and remnants white

Of man; all loneliness, but when some slave With faint, fond hand the hurried burial gave, Then died. The despot sat upon his throne, Scoffing to see the stubborn traitors wave At his least breath. The good and brave were gone To exile or the tomb. Their country's life was done!

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THE ALHAMBRA.

PALACE of beauty! where the Moorish lord, King of the bow, the bridle, and the sword, Sat like a genie in the diamond's blaze. Oh! to have seen thee in the ancient days, When at thy morning gates the coursers stood, The thousand," milk-white, Yemen's fiery blood, In pearl and ruby harness'd for the king: And through thy portals pour'd the gorgeous flood Of jewell'd Sheik and emir, hastening, Before the sky the dawning purple show'd, Their turbans at the caliph's feet to fling. Lovely thy morn,-thy evening lovelier still When at the waking of the first blue star That trembled on the Atalaya hill, The splendours of the trumpet's voice arose, Brilliant and bold, and yet no sound of war; But summoning thy beauty from repose, The shaded slumber of the burning noon. Then in the slant sun all thy fountains shone, Shooting the sparkling column from the vase Of crystal cool, and falling in a haze Of rainbow hues on floors of porphyry, And the rich bordering beds of every bloom That breathes to African or Indian sky, Carnation, tuberose, thick anemone; Then was the harping of the minstrels heard, In the deep arbours, or the regal hall, Hushing the tumult of the festival, When the pale bard his kindling eyeball rear'd, And told of eastern glories, silken hosts, Tower'd elephants, and chiefs in topaz arın'd: Or of the myriads from the cloudy coasts Of the far western sea, the sons of blood, The iron men of tournament and feud, That round the bulwarks of their fathers swarm'd, Doom'd by the Moslem scimitar to fall; Till the Red Cross was hurl'd from Salem's wall. Where are thy pomps, Alhambra, earthly sun That had no rival, and no second-gone! Thy glory down the arch of time has roll'd, Like the great day-star to the ocean dim, The billows of the ages o'er thee swim, Gloomy and fathomless; thy tale is told. Where is thy horn of battle that but blown Brought every chief of Afric from his throne ; Brought every spear of Afric from the wall; Brought every charger barded from the stall, Till all its tribes sat mounted on the shore; Waiting the waving of thy torch to pour The living deluge on the fields of Spain. Queen of earth's loveliness, there was a stain Upon thy brow-the stain of guilt and gore; Thy course was bright, bold, treacherous,-and 'tis The spear and diadem are from thee gone; [o'er. Silence is now sole monarch of thy throne!

A LOVER'S OATH.

By this white hand, thus shook with such sweet By the deliciousness of this droop'd eye; [fear; By the red witchery of this trembling lip; By all the charm of woman's weeping love.

A MEETING OF MAGICIANS.

Is my own land, and hunting through the hills, I've sat from eve to sunrise, in the caves Of Atlas, circled by the altar-fires Of black enchanters, men who yearly came, By compact, to hold solemn festival: Some riding fiery dragons, some on shafts Of the sunn'd topaz, some on ostrich plumes, Or wondrous cars, that press'd the subtle air, No heavier than its clouds,-some in swift barks, That lit the Libyan Sea through night and storm, Like wing'd volcanoes; from all zones of the earth, From the mysterious fountains of the Nile, Gold-sanded Niger, India's diamond shore, From silken China,-from the Spicy Isles, Like incense-urns set in the purple sea By Taprobane.

THE STARS.

YE stars! bright legions that, before all time, Camp'd on yon plain of sapphire, what shall tell Your burning myriads, but the eye of Him Who bade through heaven your golden chariots

wheel?

Yet who earthborn can see your hosts, nor feel Immortal impulses-Eternity?

What wonder if the o'erwrought soul should reel With its own weight of thought, and the wild eye See fate within your tracts of sleepless glory lie?

For ye behold the mightiest. From that steep What ages have ye worshipp'd round your King? Ye heard his trumpet sounded o'er the sleep Of earth;-ye heard the morning angels sing. Upon that orb, now o'er me quivering, The gaze of Adam fix'd from Paradise; The wanderers of the deluge saw it spring Above the mountain surge, and hail'd its rise Lightning their lonely track with hope's celestial

dyes.

On Calvary shot down that purple eye,
When, but the soldier and the sacrifice,
All were departed.-Mount of Agony!
But Time's broad pinion, ere the giant dies,
Shall cloud your dome.-Ye fruitage of the skies,
Your vineyard shall be shaken!-From your urn
Censers of Heaven! no more shall glory rise,
Your incense to the Throne !-The heavens shall

burn:

For all your pomps are dust, and shall to dust re

turn.

Yet look, ye living intellects.-The trine
Of waning planets speaks it not decay?
Does Schedir's staff of diamond wave no sign?
Monarch of midnight, Sirius, shoots thy ray
Undimm'd, when thrones sublunar pass away!
Dreams!-yet if e'er was graved in vigil wan
Your spell on gem or imaged alchemy,
The sign when empire's hour-glass downwards

ran.

'Twas on that arch, graved on that brazen talisman.

PERICLES AND ASPASIA.

THIS was the ruler of the land,
When Athens was the land of fame;
This was the light that led the band,

When each was like a living flame:
The centre of earth's noblest ring,
Of more than men, the more than king!

Yet, not by fetter, nor by spear;

His sovereignty was held or won; Fear'd-but alone as freemen fear;

Loved-but as freemen love alone! He waved the sceptre o'er his kind, By nature's first great title-mind! Resistless words were on his tongue;

Then eloquence first flash'd below! Full arm'd to life the portent sprung, Minerva, from the Thunderer's brow! And his the sole, the sacred hand, That shook her ægis o'er the land! And throned immortal, by his side,

A woman sits, with eye sublime,— Aspasia, all his spirit's bride;

But if their solemn love were crime,Pity the beauty and the sage,Their crime was in their darken'd age.

He perish'd-but his wreath was wonHe perish'd on his height of fame! Then sank the cloud on Athens' sun; Yet still she conquer'd in his name. Fill'd with his soul, she could not dieHer conquest was posterity!

LEONIDAS.

SHOUT for the mighty men

Who died along this shore,

Who died within this mountain glen!
For never nobler chieftain's head
Was laid on valour's crimson bed,

Nor ever prouder gore

Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day Upon thy strand, Thermopyla!

Shout for the mighty men,

Who on the Persian tents,

Like lions from their midnight den,
Bounding on the slumbering deer,
Rush'd-a storm of sword and spear-
Like the roused elements,

Let loose from an immortal hand,
To chasten or to crush a land!

But there are none to hear;

Greece is a hopeless slave.
Leonidas! no hand is near
To lift thy fiery falchion now:

No warrior makes the warrior's vow
Upon thy sea-wash'd

grave.

The voice that should be raised by men, Must now be given by wave and glen.

A PARISIAN FAUXBOURG.

'Tis light and air again: and lo! the Seine, Yon boasted, lazy, livid, fetid drain! With paper booths, and painted trees o'erlaid, Baths, blankets, wash-tubs, women, all but trade. Yet here are living beings, and the soil Breeds its old growth of ribaldry and broil. A whirl of mire, the dingy cabriolet Makes the quick transit through the crowded way; On spurs the courier, creaks the crazy wain, Dragg'd through its central gulf of mud and stain; Around our way-laid wheels the paupers crowd, Naked, contagious, cringing, and yet proud. The whole a mass of folly, filth, and strife, Of heated, rank, corrupting, reptile life; And, endless as their oozy tide, the throng Roll on with endless clamour, curse, and song. Fit for such tenants, lour on either side The hovels where the gang less live than hide; Story on story, savage stone on stone, [thrown. Time-shatter'd, tempest-stain'd, not built, but Sole empress of the portal, in full blow, The rouged grisette lays out her trade below, Even in her rags a thing of wit and wile, [smile. Eve, hand, lip, tongue, all point, and press, and Close by, in patch and print, the pedlar's stall Flutters its looser glories up the wall. Spot of corruption! where the rabble rude Loiter round tinsel tomes, and figures nude; Voltaire, and Lais, long alternate eyed, Till both the leper's soul and sous divide. Above, 'tis desert, save where sight is scared With the wild visage through the casement barr'd; Or, swinging from their pole, chemise and sheet Drip from the attic o'er the fuming street.

THE GRIEVINGS OF A PROUD SPIRIT.

CRIME may be clear'd, and Sorrow's eyes be dried, The lowliest poverty be gilded yet; The neck of airless, pale imprisonment Be lighten'd of its chains! For all the ills That chance or nature lays upon our heads, In chance or nature there is found a cure: But self-abasement is beyond all cure! The brand is there burn'd in the living flesh, That bears its mark to the grave. That dagger's Into the central pulses of the heart; [plunged The act is the mind's suicide; for which There is no after health-no hope-no pardon!

WHY, I could give you fact and argument, Brought from all earth-all life-all history ;O'erwhelm you with sad tales, convictions strong, Till you could hate it; tell of gentle lives, Light as the lark's upon the morning cloud, Struck down at once by the keen shaft of love; Of maiden beauty, wasting all away, Like a departing vision into air; Finding no occupation for her eyes, But to bedew her couch with midnight tears, Till death upon its bosom pillow'd her; Of noble natures sour'd; rich minds obscured; High hopes turn'd blank; nay, of the kingly crown Mouldering amid the embers of the throne;And all by love. We paint him as a child, When he should sit, a giant on his clouds, The great, disturbing spirit of the world!

JEWELS.

You shall have all that ever sparkled yet, And of the rarest. Not an Afric king Shall wear one that you love. The Persian's brow, And the swart emperor's by the Indian stream Shall wane beside you; you shall be a blaze Of rubies, your lips rivals; topazes, Like solid sunbeams; moony opals; pearls, Fit to be Ocean's lamps; brown hyacinths, Lost only in your tresses; chrysolites, Transparent gold; diamonds, like new-shot stars, Or brighter,—like those eyes! You shall have all That ever lurk'd in Eastern mines, or paved With light the treasure-chambers of the sea.

MOUNTAINEERS.

THE mountain-horn shall ring, And every Alp shall answer; and the caves, And forest depths and valleys, and the beds Of the eternal snows, shall pour out tribes That know no Roman tyrants,-daring hearts, Swift feet, strong hands, that neither hunger, thirst, Nor winter cataracts, nor the tempest's roar, When the hills shake with thunderbolts,-can tire.

THIS poet was a native of Ayrshire, and was several years editor of a newspaper in Glasgow. He was an antiquary, and particularly delighted in the study of the early ballads and other poetry of Scotland and England, of which he published a selection in 1827, entitled Minstrelsy Ancient and Modern, with an Historical Introduction and Notes. In this volume he published his own spirited lyric, The Cavalier's Song, professing an ignorance of its authorshin His Poems Narrative and

Lyrical appeared in 1832. Some of them are exceedingly beautiful. Jeannie Morrison and "My heid is like to rend, Willie," are scarcely surpassed for simplicity and tenderness in the whole range of Scottish poetry. MOTHERWELL, like BURNS, was poor, and, like him, toward the close of his life, he sought excitement and forgetfulness in intemperance. He died in Glasgow on the fifteenth of October, 1835, in the thirty-seventh year of his age.

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.
My heid is like to rend, Willie,
My heart is like to break,—
I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,
I'm dyin' for your sake!

O lay your cheek to mine, Willie,
Your hand on my briest-bane,—
O say ye'll think on me, Willie,
When I am deid and gane!

It's vain to comfort me, Willie,
Sair grief maun hae its will,-
But let me rest upon your briest,
To sab and greet my fill.
Let me sit on your knee, Willie,
Let me shed by your hair,
And look into the face, Willie,
I never sall see mair!

I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,
For the last time in my life,-
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,
A mither, yet nae wife.

Ay, press your hand upon my heart,

And press it mair and mair,-
Or it will burst its silken twine,

Sae strang is its despair!

O wae's me for the hour, Willie,
When we thegither inet,-
O wae's me for the time, Willie,
That our first tryst was set!
O wae's me for the loanin' green
Where we were wont to gae,—
And wae's me for the destinie,

That gart me luve thee sae!

O! dinna mind my words, Willie,
I downa seek to blame,-
But O! it's hard to live, Willie,
And dree a warld's shame!

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