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, Each guest upstarted, at the word, And Stanley said: "We crave the name, St. Leon paused, as if he would Then bent his noble head, as though THE LION'S BRIDE. IN myrtle, and bridle robes, arrayed, So wild and fierce before, he lies "In the days gone by, my comrade wild, '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 He stood as proud by that death-shrine, 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- And had that grasp been on the brand, With freer pride than it waved now: The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, I saw him once before; he rode And tens of thousands thronged the road, His helm, his breast-plate, were of gold, The sun shone on his sparkling mail, But now he stood, chained and alone; He bent beneath the headsman's stroke A wild shout from the numbers broke, 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; 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! And the strength to be free,-and the will! The Helots are come: In their eyes Proud hate and fierce massacre burn; Our fathers, each man was a god, Of his voice, like a spirit's, was worshipped: he trod, From the gates of the West to the Sun And we shall we die in our chains, Who is it that threatens,—who is it arraigns? Barry Cornwall. |