St. Leon raised his kindling eye, And lifts the sparkling cup on high: "I drink to one,” he said, "Whose image never may depart, Deep graven on this grateful heart, Till memory be dead.

"To one, whose love for me shall last, When lighter passions long have past,― So holy 'tis and true;

To one, whose love hath longer dwelt,
More deeply fixed, more keenly felt,
Than any pledged by you."

Each guest upstarted, at the word,
And laid a hand upon his sword,
With fury-flashing eye;

And Stanley said: "We crave the name,
Proud knight, of this most peerless dame,
Whose love you count so high.”

St. Leon paused, as if he would
Not breathe her name in careless mood,
Thus lightly to another;

Then bent his noble head, as though
To give that word the reverence due,
And gently said: "My Mother!"

THE LION'S BRIDE.

IN myrtle, and bridle robes, arrayed,
The keeper's daughter, a lovely maid,
Enters the lion's cage, and he
Crouches before her lovingly.

So wild and fierce before, he lies
And looks up into his mistress' eyes;
The maiden, so gentle and full of grace,
Strokes him softly with tearful face.

"In the days gone by, my comrade wild,
We were true playmates, child and child;
We loved each other, and loved to play ;-
Alas! our childhood has passed away!

'Tis true, there was-there was a time, I sighed, I panted to be free,

And pining for my Southern clime, bowed down my stubborn knee.

"There I have stretched my yearning arms, and shook in wrath my galley chain,

There, when the magic word had charms, I groaned for liberty, in vain!

That freedom ye at length bestow, and bid me bless my envied fate;

Ye tell me I am free to go-where? I am desolate !

"The boundless hope-the spring of joy, felt when the spirit's strength is young;

Which slavery only can alloy-the mockeries to which I clung ;

The eyes, whose fond and sunny ray made life's dull lamp less dimly burn,

The tones I pined for day by day—can ye bid them return?

"Bring back the chain!-its clanking sound hath now a power beyond your own;

It brings young visions smiling round, too fondly lovedtoo early flown!

It brings me days when these dim eyes gazed o'er the wild and swelling sea,

Counting how many suns must rise ere one might hail me free!

"Bring back the chain! that I may think 'tis that which weighs my spirit so;

And, gazing on each galling link, dream-as I dreamt—of

bitter woe!

My days are gone ;-of hope, of youth, these traces now

alone remain

(Hoarded with sorrow's sacred truth)-tears, and my iron chain !

Freedom!-though doomed in pain to live, the freedom of the soul is mine;

But all of slavery you could give, around my steps must ever twine.

Raise up the head which age hath bent, renew the hopes

that childhood gave,

Bid all return kind heaven once lent;-till then-I am a slave!

Mrs. Norton.

CRESCENTIUS.

I LOOKED upon his brow ;-no sign
Of guilt or fear was there;

He stood as proud by that death-shrine,
As even o'er despair

He had a power; in his eye

There was a quenchless energy—

A spirit that could dare

The deadliest form that death could take, And dare it for the daring's sake.

He stood, the fetters on his hand-
He raised them haughtily;

And had that grasp been on the brand,
It could not wave on high

With freer pride than it waved now:
Around he looked, with changeless brow,
On many a torture nigh—

The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel,
And, worst of all, his own red steel!

I saw him once before; he rode
Upon a coal-black steed,

And tens of thousands thronged the road,
And bade their warrior speed.

His helm, his breast-plate, were of gold,
And graved with many a dent, that told
Of many a soldier's deed;

The sun shone on his sparkling mail,
And danced his snow-plume in the gale.

But now he stood, chained and alone;
The headsman by his side;
The plume, the helm, the charger gone;
The sword that had defied
The mightiest, lay broken near;
And yet no sign or sound of fear
Came from that lip of pride;
And never king or conqueror's brow
More higher look, than his did now.

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke
With an uncovered eye;

A wild shout from the numbers broke,
That thronged to see him die.
It was a people's loud acclaim,
The voice of anger and of shame-
A nation's funeral cry ;—
Rome's wail above her only son,
Her patriot-and her latest one!

L. E. L. (Mrs. Maclean.)

HARMOSAN.

Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian throne was done,

And the Moslem's fiery valor had the crowning victory

won:

Harmosan, the last of foemen, and the boldest to defy,

Captive, overborne by numbers, they were bringing forth to die.

Then exclaimed that noble Satrap, "Lo, I perish in my thirst;

Give me but one drink of water, and let then arrive the worst."

In his hand he took the goblet, but awhile the draught forbore,

Seeming doubtfully the purpose of the victors to explore.

"But what fear'st thou ?” cried the Caliph : " dost thou dread a secret blow?

Fear it not; our gallant Moslems no such treacherous dealings know.

Thou mayst quench thy thirst securely; for thou shalt not die before

Thou hast drunk that cup of water: this reprieve is thine— no more."

Quick the Satrap dashed the goblet down to earth with ready hand,

And the liquid sunk,-forever lost, amid the burning sand: "Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the water of that

cup

I have drained:-then bid thy servants that spilled water gather up!

For a moment stood the Caliph, as by doubtful passions stirred:

Then exclaimed, "For ever sacred must remain a Monarch's word.

Bring forth another cup and straightway to the noble Persian give:

Drink, I said before, and perish ;-now, I bid thee drink and live!"

WAR SONG OF THE GREEK.

AWAKE! 'tis the terror of war!

The crescent is tossed on the wind;
But our flag flies on high, like the perilous star
Of the battle, before and behind,
Wherever it glitters, it darts

Bright death into tyrannous hearts.

Who are they that now bid us be slaves?

They are foes to the good and the free;

Go, bid them first fetter the might of the waves!
The sea may be conquered; but we
Have spirits untameable still

And the strength to be free,-and the will!

The Helots are come: In their eyes

Proud hate and fierce massacre burn;
They hate us, but shall they despise?
They are come; shall they ever return?
O God of the Greeks! from thy throne
Look down, and we'll conquer alone!

Our fathers, each man was a god,
His will was a law, and the sound

Of his voice, like a spirit's, was worshipped: he trod,
And thousands fell worshippers round:

From the gates of the West to the Sun
He bade, and his bidding was done.

And we shall we die in our chains,
Who once were as free as the wind?

Who is it that threatens,—who is it arraigns?
Are they princes of Europe or Ind?
Are they kings to the uttermost pole?
They are dogs, with a taint on their soul!

Barry Cornwall.