Still gazing on the lovely sky,

Whose radiance woo'd him-but to die?
Like him, who would not linger there,
Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair?
Who midst thy glowing scenes could dwell,
Nor bid awhile his griefs farewell?
Hath not thy pure and genial air
Balm for all sadness but despair ?1

No! there are pangs whose deep-worn trace
Not all thy magic can efface!

Hearts by unkindness wrung may learn
The world and all its gifts to spurn;
Time may steal on with silent tread,
And dry the tear that mourns the dead,
May change fond love, subdue regret,
And teach e'en vengeance to forget:
But thou, Remorse! there is no charm
Thy sting, avenger, to disarm!

Vain are bright suns and laughing skies
To soothe thy victim's agonies:
The heart once made thy burning throne,
Still, while it beats, is thine alone.

In vain for Otho's joyless eye Smile the fair scenes of Italy, As through her landscapes' rich array Th' imperial pilgrim bends his way. Thy form, Crescentius! on his sight Rises when nature laughs in light, Glides round him at the midnight hour, Is present in his festal bower, With awful voice and frowning mien, By all but him unheard, unseen. Oh! thus to shadows of the grave Be every tyrant still a slave!

Where, through Gargano's woody dells, O'er bending oaks the north wind swells,2

brute creatures give him marks of their care and attention?' Then, partly by entreaty, partly by force, they got him into his litter, and carried him towards the sea."-PLUTARCH, Life of Cicero.

1 "Now purer air

Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive
All sadness but despair."-MILTON.

2 Mount Gargano. "This ridge of mountains forms a very large promontory advancing into the Adriatic, and separated from the Apennines on the west by the plains of Lucera and San Severo. We took a ride into the heart of the mountains through shady dells and noble woods, which brought to our minds the venerable groves that in ancient times bent with the loud winds sweeping along the rugged sides of Garganus: 'Aquilonibus

Querceta Gargani laborant,

Et foliis viduantur orni.'- HORACE.

A sainted hermit's lowly tomb Is bosom'd in umbrageous gloom, In shades that saw him live and die Beneath their waving canopy. 'Twas his, as legends tell, to share The converse of immortals there; Around that dweller of the wild There "bright appearances" have smiled, And angel-wings at eve have been Gleaming the shadowy boughs between. And oft from that secluded bower Hath breathed, at midnight's calmer hour, A swell of viewless harps, a sound Of warbled anthems pealing round. Oh, none but voices of the sky Might wake that thrilling harmony, Whose tones, whose very echoes made An Eden of the lonely shade! Years have gone by; the hermit sleeps Amidst Gargano's woods and steeps; Ivy and flowers have half o'ergrown And veil'd his low sepulchral stone: Yet still the spot is holy, still Celestial footsteps haunt the hill; And oft the awe-struck mountaineer Aërial vesper-hymns may hear Around those forest-precincts float, Soft, solemn, clear, but still remote. Oft will Affliction breathe her plaint To that rude shrine's departed saint, And deem that spirits of the blest There shed sweet influence o'er her breast.

And thither Otho now repairs,

To soothe his soul with vows and prayers;
And if for him, on holy ground,
The lost one, Peace, may yet be found,
Midst rocks and forests, by the bed
Where calmly sleep the sainted dead,
She dwells, remote from heedless eye,
With nature's lonely majesty.

Vain, vain the search !-his troubled breast Nor vow nor penance lulls to rest:

The weary pilgrimage is o'er,
The hopes that cheer'd it are no more.
Then sinks his soul, and day by day
Youth's buoyant energies decay.

"There is still a respectable forest of evergreen and common oak, pine, hornbeam, chestnut, and manna-ash. The sheltered valleys are industriously cultivated, and seem to be blest with luxuriant vegetation."-SWINBURNE's Travels. "In yonder nether world where shall I seek

His bright appearances, or footstep trace?"-MILTON

The light of health his eye hath flown,
The glow that tinged his cheek is gone.
Joyless as one on whom is laid
Some baleful spell that bids him fade,
Extending its mysterious power
O'er every scene, o'er every hour:
E'en thus he withers; and to him
Italia's brilliant skies are dim.
He withers-in that glorious clime
Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time;
And suns, that shed on all below
Their full and vivifying glow,
From him alone their power withhold,
And leave his heart in darkness cold.
Earth blooms around him, heaven is fair--
He only seems to perish there.

Yet sometimes will a transient smile
Play o'er his faded cheek awhile,
When breathes his minstrel boy a strain
Of power to lull all earthly pain-
So wildly sweet, its notes might seem
Th' ethereal music of a dream,
A spirit's voice from worlds unknown,
Deep thrilling power in every tone!
Sweet is that lay! and yet its flow
Hath language only given to woe;
And if at times its wakening swell
Some tale of glory seems to tell,
Soon the proud notes of triumph die,
Lost in a dirge's harmony.

Oh! many a pang the heart hath proved,
Hath deeply suffer'd, fondly loved,

Ere the sad strain could catch from thence
Such deep impassion'd eloquence !
Yes! gaze on him, that minstrel boy-
He is no child of hope and joy!
Though few his years, yet have they been
Such as leave traces on the mien,
And o'er the roses of our prime
Breathe other blights than those of time.

Yet seems his spirit wild and proud,
By grief unsoften'd and unbow'd.
Oh! there are sorrows which impart
A sternness foreign to the heart,
And, rushing with an earthquake's power,
That makes a desert in an hour,

Rouse the dread passions in their course,
As tempests wake the billows' force!-
"Tis sad, on youthful Guido's face,
The stamp of woes like these to trace.
Oh! where can ruins awe mankind
Dark as the ruins of the mind?

His mien is lofty, but his gaze Too well a wandering soul betrays: His full dark eye at times is bright With strange and momentary light, Whose quick uncertain flashes throw O'er his pale cheek a hectic glow: And oft his features and his air A shade of troubled mystery wear, A glance of hurried wildness, fraught With some unfathomable thought. Whate'er that thought, still unexpress'd Dwells the sad secret in his breast; The pride his haughty brow reveals All other passion well concealsHe breathes each wounded feeling's tone In music's eloquence alone;

His soul's deep voice is only pour'd Through his full song and swelling chord.

He seeks no friend, but shuns the train
Of courtiers with a proud disdain,
And, save when Otho bids his lay
Its half unearthly power essay
In hall or bower the heart to thrill,
His haunts are wild and lonely still.
Far distant from the headless throng,
He roves old Tiber's banks along,
Where Empire's desolate remains
Lie scatter'd o'er the silent plains;
Or, lingering midst each ruin'd shrine
That strews the desert Palatine,
With mournful yet commanding mien,
Like the sad genius of the scene,
Entranced in awful thought appears
To commune with departed years.
Or at the dead of night, when Rome
Seems of heroic shades the home;
When Tiber's murmuring voice recalls
The mighty to their ancient halls;
When hush'd is every meaner sound,
And the deep moonlight-calm around
Leaves to the solemn scene alone
The majesty of ages flown-
A pilgrim to each hero's tomb,

He wanders through the sacred gloom;
And midst those dwellings of decay
At times will breathe so sad a lay,
So wild a grandeur in each tone,
"Tis like a dirge for empires gone!

Awake thy pealing harp again, But breathe a more exulting strain, Young Guido! for awhile forgot Be the dark secrets of thy lot,

And rouse th' inspiring soul of song
To speed the banquet's hour along !—
The feast is spread, and music's call
Is echoing through the royal hall,
And banners wave and trophies shine
O'er stately guests in glittering line;
And Otho seeks awhile to chase
The thoughts he never can erase,

And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep
Rise like a spirit on his sleep-

The still small voice of conscience-die,
Lost in the din of revelry.

On his pale brow dejection lowers,
But that shall yield to festal hours;
A gloom is in his faded eye,

But that from music's power shall fly;
His wasted cheek is wan with care,

But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there.
Wake, Guido wake thy numbers high,
Strike the bold chord exultingly!
And pour upon the enraptured ear
Such strains as warriors love to hear!
Let the rich mantling goblet flow,
And banish aught resembling woe;
And if a thought intrude, of power
To mar the bright convivial hour,
Still must its influence lurk unseen,
And cloud the heart-but not the mien !

Away, vain dream!-on Otho's brow,
Still darker lower the shadows now;
Changed are his features, now o'erspread
With the cold paleness of the dead;
Now crimson'd with a hectic dye,
The burning flush of agony !
His lip is quivering, and his breast
Heaves with convulsive pangs oppress'd;
Now his dim eye seems fix'd and glazed,
And now to heaven in anguish raised;
And as, with unavailing aid,

Around him throng his guests dismay'd,
He sinks-while scarce his struggling breath
Hath power to falter-"This is death!"

Then rush'd that haughty child of song, Dark Guido, through the awe-struck throng. Fill'd with a strange delirious light, His kindling eye shone wildly bright; And on the sufferer's mien awhile Gazing with stern vindictive smile, A feverish glow of triumph dyed His burning cheek, while thus he cried :"Yes! these are death-pangs-on thy brow Is set the seal of vengeance now!

Oh! well was mix'd the deadly draught,
And long and deeply hast thou quaff'd;
And bitter as thy pangs may be,

They are but guerdons meet from me!
Yet these are but a moment's throes-
Howe'er intense, they soon shall close.
Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath—
My life hath been a lingering death,
Since one dark hour of woe and crime,
A blood-spot on the page of time!

"Deem'st thou my mind of reason void? It is not frenzied-but destroy'd! Ay! view the wreck with shuddering thought-That work of ruin thou hast wrought! The secret of thy doom to tell, My name alone suffices well! Stephania!-once a hero's bride! Otho! thou know'st the rest-he died. Yes! trusting to a monarch's word, The Roman fell, untried, unheard! And thou, whose every pledge was vain, How couldst thou trust in aught again?

"He died, and I was changed-my soul,
A lonely wanderer, spurn'd control.
From peace, and light, and glory hurl'd,
The outcast of a purer world,

I saw each brighter hope o'erthrown,
And lived for one dread task alone.
The task is closed, fulfill'd the vow-
The hand of death is on thee now.
Betrayer in thy turn betray'd,
The debt of blood shall soon be paid!
Thine hour is come-the time hath been
My heart had shrunk from such a scene;
That feeling long is past-my fate
Hath made me stern as desolate.

"Ye that around me shuddering stand, Ye chiefs and princes of the land! Mourn ye a guilty monarch's doom? Ye wept not o'er the patriot's tomb ! He sleeps unhonour'd-yet be mine To share his low, neglected shrine. His soul with freedom finds a home, His grave is that of glory-Rome! Are not the great of old with her, That city of the sepulchre? Lead me to death! and let me share, The slumbers of the mighty there!"

The day departs-that fearful day Fades in calm loveliness away:

From purple heavens its lingering beam
Seems melting into Tiber's stream,
And softly tints each Roman hill
With glowing light, as clear and still
As if, unstain'd by crime or woe,
Its hours had pass'd in silent flow.
The day sets calmly-it hath been
Mark'd with a strange and awful scene:
One guilty bosom throbs no more,
And Otho's pangs and life are o'er.
And thou, ere yet another sun
His burning race hath brightly run,
Released from anguish by thy foes,
Daughter of Rome! shalt find repose.
Yes! on thy country's lovely sky
Fix yet once more thy parting eye!
A few short hours-and all shall be
The silent and the past for thee.
Oh! thus with tempests of a day
We struggle, and we pass away,
Like the wild billows as they sweep,
Leaving no vestige on the deep!
And o'er thy dark and lowly bed
The sons of future days shall tread,
The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot,
By them unknown, by thee forgot.

THE LAST BANQUET OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

["Antony, concluding that he could not die more honourably than in battle, determined to attack Cæsar at the same time both by sea and land. The night preceding the execution of this design, be ordered his servants at supper to render him their best services that evening, and fill the wine round plentifully, for the day following they might belong to another master, whilst he lay extended on the ground, no longer of consequence either to them or to himself. His friends were affected, and wept to hear him talk thus; which when he perceived, he encouraged them by assurances that his expectations of a glorious victory were at least equal to those of an honourable death. At the dead of night, when universal silence reigned through the city-a silence that was deepened by the awful thought of the ensuing day-on a sudden was heard the sound of musical instruments, and a noise which resembled the exclamations of Bacchanals. This tumultuous procession seemed to pass through the whole city, and to go out at the gate which led to the enemy's camp. Those who reflected on this prodigy concluded that Bacchus, the god whom Antony affected to imitate, had then forsaken him."LANGHORNE'S Plutarch.]

THY foes had girt thee with their dread array,
O stately Alexandria !-yet the sound
Of mirth and music, at the close of day,

Swell'd from thy splendid fabrics far around

But thou, enchantress queen! whose love hath made

His desolation-thou art by his side,

In all thy sovereignty of charms array'd,

To meet the storm with still unconquer'd pride. Imperial being! e'en though many a stain

Of error be upon thee, there is power
In thy commanding nature, which shall reign
O'er the stern genius of misfortune's hour;
And the dark beauty of thy troubled eye
E'en now is all illumed with wild sublimity.

Thine aspect, all impassion'd, wears a light
Inspiring and inspired-thy cheek a dye,
Which rises not from joy, but yet is bright

With the deep glow of feverish energy.
Proud siren of the Nile! thy glance is fraught
With an immortal fire-in every beam
It darts, there kindles some heroic thought,
But wild and awful as a sibyl's dream;
For thou with death hast communed to attain
Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from
the chain.1

And the stern courage by such musings lent,
Daughter of Afric! o'er thy beauty throws
The grandeur of a regal spirit, blent

With all the majesty of mighty woes:

While he, so fondly, fatally adored,

Thy fallen Roman, gazes on thee yet,
Till scarce the soul that once exulting soar'd
Can deem the day-star of its glory set;

Scarce his charm'd heart believes that power can be In sovereign fate, o'er him thus fondly loved by thee.

But there is sadness in the eyes around,

Which mark that ruin'd leader, and survey His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom profound Strange triumph chases haughtily away.

"Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests!" he cries; 'Quaff, ere we part, the generous nectar deep! Ere sunset gild once more the western skies

Your chief in cold forgetfulness may sleep; While sounds of revel float o'er shore and sea, And the red bowl again is crown'd-but not for me.

1 Cleopatra made a collection of poisonous drugs, and being desirous to know which was least painful in the operation, she tried them on the capital convicts. Such poisons as were quick in their operation, she found to be attended with violent pain and convulsions; such as were milder were slow in their effect: she therefore applied herself to the examination of venomous creatures; and at length she found that the bite of the asp was the most eligible kind of death, for it brought on a gradual kind of lethargy.-See PLUTARCH.