The sun went down on many a brow,

Which, full of bloom and freshness then,

Is rankling in the pest-house now,

And ne'er will feel that sun again! And oh! to see th' unburied heaps On which the lonely midnight sleepsThe very vultures turn away, And sicken at so foul a prey! Only the fiercer hyæna stalks Throughout the city's desolate walks At midnight, and his carnage plies-Woe to the half-dead wretch, who meets The glaring of those large blue eyes

Amid the darkness of the streets!

"Poor race of Men!" said the pitying Spirit, "Dearly ye pay for your primal fall— Some flowerets of Eden ye still inherit,

But the trail of the Serpent is over them all!” She wept the air grew pure and clear

Around her, as the bright drops ran;
For there's a magic in each tear,
Such kindly spirits weep for man!
Just then, beneath some orange-trees,
Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze
Were wantoning together, free,
Like age at play with infancy-
Beneath that fresh and springing bower,
Close by the lake, she heard the moan

Of one who, at this silent hour,
Had thither stolen to die alone.

One who in life, where'er he moved,
Drew after him the hearts of many;
Yet now, as though he ne'er were loved,
Dies here, unseen, unwept by any!
None to watch near him-none to slake
The fire that in his bosom lies,
With e'en a sprinkle from that lake,

Which shines so cool before his eyes.
No voice, will know through many a day,
To speak the last, the parting word,
Which, when all other sounds decay,
Is still like distant music heard.
That tender farewell on the shore
Of this rude world, when all is o'er,
Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark
Puts off into the unknown dark.

Deserted youth! one thought alone

Shed joy around his soul in death-That she, whom he for years had known, And loved, and might have call'd his own, Was safe from this foul midnight's breath;Safe in her father's princely halls, Where the cool airs from fountain falls, Freshly perfumed by many a brand Of the sweet wood from India's land, Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd.

But see,-who yonder comes by stealth,
This melancholy bower to seek,
Like a young envoy, sent by Health,
With rosy gifts upon her cheek?
'Tis she-far off through moonlight dim,
He knew his own betrothed bride,
She, who would rather die with him,

Than live to gain the world beside!—

Her arms are round her lover now,

His livid cheek to hers she presses, And dips, to bind his burning brow,

In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses. Ah! once, how little did he think

An hour would come, when he should shrink With horror from that dear embrace,

Those gentle arms, that were to him
Holy as is the cradling place

Of Eden's infant cherubim!
And now he yields-now turns away,
Shuddering as if the venom lay
All in those proffer'd lips alone-
Those lips that, then so fearless grown,
Never until that instant came
Near his unask'd or without shame.

“Oh! let me only breathe the air,
The blessed air, that's breathed by thee,

And, whether on its wings it bear
Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me!
There-drink my tears, while yet they fall,-
Would that my bosom's blood were balm,
And, well thou know'st, I'd shed it all,
To give thy brow one minute's calm.
Nay, turn not from me that dear face-

Am I not thine—thy own loved bride—
The one, the chosen one, whose place
In life or death is by thy side!
Think'st thou that she, whose only light,

In this dim world, from thee hath shone, Could bear the long, the cheerless night,

That must be hers, when thou art gone?

That I can live, and let thee go,
Who art my life itself?—No, no—
When the stem dies, the leaf that grew
Out of its heart must perish too!
Then turn to me, my own love, turn,
Before like thee I fade and burn;
Cling to these yet cool lips, and share
The last pure life that lingers there!"
She fails-she sinks-as dies the lamp
In charnel airs or cavern-damp,
So quickly do his baleful sighs
Quench all the sweet light of her eyes!
One struggle-and his pain is past—
Her lover is no longer living!
One kiss this maiden gives, one last,
Long kiss, which she expires in giving!

"Sleep," said the Peri, as softly she stole
The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul,
As true as e'er warm'd a woman's breast-
"Sleep on, in visions of odor rest,
In balmier airs than ever yet stirr'd
Th' enchanted pile of that holy bird,
Who sings at the last his own death lay,1
And in music and perfume dies away!"
Thus saying, from her lips she spread

Unearthly breathings through the place,
And shook her sparkling wreath and shed
Such luster o'er each paly face,

That like two lovely saints they seem'd
Upon the eve of doomsday taken
From their dim graves, in odor sleeping;-
While that benevolent Peri beam'd
Like their good angel, calmly keeping

Watch o'er them, till their souls would waken.

But morn is blushing in the sky;

Again the Peri soars above,

Bearing to heaven that precious sigh
Of pure, self-sacrificing love.
High throbb'd her heart, with hope elate,
The Elysian palm she soon shall win,
For the bright Spirit at the gate

Smiled as she gave that offering in;

And she already hears the trees

Of Eden, with their crystal bells
Ringing in that ambrosial breeze

That from the Throne of Alla swells;
And she can see the starry bowls
That lie around that lucid lake,
Upon whose banks admitted souls

Their first sweet draught of glory take!
But ah! even Peris' hopes are vain-
Again the Fates forbade, again
The immortal barrier closed-" not yet,"
The Angel said, as with regret,

He shut from her that glimpse of glory-
"True was the maiden, and her story,
Written in light o'er Alla's head,
By seraph eyes shall long be read.
But, Peri, see-the crystal bar
Of Eden moves not-holier far
Than even this sigh the boon must be
That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee."

Now, upon Syria's land of roses
Softly the light of eve reposes,
And, like a glory, the broad sun
Hangs over sainted Lebanon;
Whose head in wintry grandeur towers,
And whitens with eternal sleet,
While summer, in a vale of flowers,
Is sleeping rosy at his feet.

1 "In the East, they suppose the Phoenix, after living one thousand years, builds himself a funeral pile, sings a melodious air of different harmonies, flaps his wings with a velocity which sets fire to the wood, and consumes himself."

To one, who look'd from upper air
O'er all th' enchanted regions there,
How beauteous must have been the glow,
The life, the spark1ing from below!
Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks
Of golden melons on their banks,
More golden where the sunlight falls;-
Gay lizards, glittering on the walls
Of ruin'd shrines, busy and bright,
As they were all alive with light;—

And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks
Of pigeons, settling on the rocks,
With their rich restless wings, that gleam
Variously in the crimson beam

Of the warm west,-as if inlaid

With brilliants from the mine, or made

Of tearless rainbows, such as span

Th' unclouded skies of Peristan!
And then, the mingling sounds that come,
Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum
Of the wild bees of Palestine

Banqueting through the flowery vales;— And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine, And woods, so full of nightingales!

But naught can charm the luckless Peri;
Her soul is sad-her wings are weary-
Joyless she sees the sun look down
On that great Temple, once his own,'
Whose lonely columns stand sublime,
Flinging their shadows from on high,
Like dials, which the wizard, Time,

Had raised to count his ages by!

Yet haply there may lie conceal'd
Beneath those chambers of the sun,
Some amulet of gems, anneal'd
In upper fires, some tablet seal'd
With the great name of Solomon,
Which, spell'd by her illumined eyes,
May teach her where, beneath the moon,
In earth or ocean lies the boon,
The charm, that can restore so soon,
An erring Spirit to the skies!

Cheer'd by this hope, she bends her thither;-
Still laughs the radiant eye of heaven,
Nor have the golden bowers of even
In the rich west begun to wither;- `
When, o'er the vale of Baalbec winging
Slowly, she sees a child at play,
Among the rosy wild-flowers singing,
As rosy and as wild as they;
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes,
The beautiful blue damsel-flies,

That flutter'd round the jasmine stems,
Like winged flowers or flying gems:-

1 The Temple of the Sun at Baalbec.

And, near the boy, who tired with play,
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay,
She saw a wearied man dismount

From his hot steed, and on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount

Impatient fling him down to drink. Then swift his haggard brow he turn'd To the fair child, who fearless sat, Though never yet hath daybeam burn'd

Upon a brow more fierce than that,― Sullenly fierce-a mixture dire,

Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire;
In which the Peri's eye could read
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed;
The ruin'd maid—the shrine profaned—
Oaths broken-and the threshold stain'd
With blood of guests!—there written, all,
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing angel's pen,
Ere Mercy weeps them out again!

Yet tranquil now that man of crime
(As if the balmy evening time
Soften'd his spirit) look'd and lay,
Watching the rosy infant's play :—
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance

Met that unclouded joyous gaze
As torches that have burnt all night
Through some impure and godless rite,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.

But hark! the vesper call to prayer,
As slow the orb of daylight sets,

Is rising sweetly on the air,

From Syria's thousand minarets!
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers, where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod
Kneels, with his forehead to the south,
Lisping th' eternal name of God

From purity's own cherub mouth,
And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,
Like a stray babe of Paradise,
Just lighted on that flowery plain,
And seeking for its home again!

Oh, 'twas a sight-that heaven-that child

A scene, which might have well beguiled

E'en haughty Eblis of a sigh

For glories lost and peace gone by!

And how felt he, the wretched man
Reclining there--while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting-place,
Nor brought him back one branch of grace.

"There was a time," he said, in mild,
Heart-humbled tones-" thou blessed child!

When, young and haply pure as thou,
I look'd and pray'd like thee-but now-
He hung his head--each nobler aim
And hope and feeling, which had slept
From boyhood's hour, that instant came
Fresh o'er him, and he wept-he wept!

Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!

In whose benign, redeeming flow

Is felt the first, the only sense

Of guiltless joy that guilt can know.

65

"There's a drop," said the Peri, "that down from the

the moon

Falls through the withering airs of June
Upon Egypt's land,' of so healing a power,
So balmy a virtue, that e'en in the hour
That drop descends, contagion dies,
And health reanimates earth and skiès!-
Oh! is it not thus, thou man of sin,

The precious tears of repentance fall?
Though foul thy fiery plagues within,

One heavenly drop hath dispell'd them all!" And now-behold him kneeling there By the child's side, in humble prayer, While the same sunbeam shines upon The guilty and the guiltless one,

And hymns of joy proclaim through heaven
The triumph of a soul forgiven!

'Twas when the golden orb had set,
While on their knees they linger'd yet,
There fell a light, more lovely far
Than ever came from sun or star,
Upon the tear that, warm and meek
Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek:
To mortal eye this light might seem
A northern flash of meteor beam-
But well th' enraptured Peri knew
'Twas a bright smile the angel threw
From heaven's gate, to hail that tear
Her harbinger of glory near!

"Joy, joy forever! my task is doneThe gates are pass'd, and heaven is won! Oh! am I not happy? I am, I am

To thee, sweet Eden! how dark and sad Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam,

And the fragrant bowers of Amberabad!

“Farewell, ye odors of earth, that die,
Passing away like a lover's sigh!
My feast is now of the tooba tree,3
Whose scent is the breath of eternity!

1 The miraculous drop, which is said to fall in Egypt precisely on St. John's day, is supposed to have the effect of stopping the plague.

2 The Country of Delight-the name of a province in Fairy Land, the capital of which is called the City of Jewels. Am. berabad is another of the cities of Jinnistan.

3 The tree Tooba, stands in Paradise in the palace of Mahomet.

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life, Be not like bumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act, act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o'er head!

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footsteps on the sands of time:—

Footsteps, that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait.

ODE.

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

I.

There was a time when meadow, grove and stream, The earth and every common sight

To me did seem

Apparell'd in celestial light,

The glory and the freshness of a dream.

It is not now as it hath been of yore;

Turn wheresoe'er I may,

By night or day,

The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

II.

The rainbow comes and goes,

And lovely is the rose,

The moon doth with delight

Look round her when the heavens are bare,

Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair;

The sunshine is a glorious birth;

But yet I know, where'er I go,

That these hath passed away a glory from the earth.

III.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound,

To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,

And I again am strong:

The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;

I hear the echoes through the mountain throng, The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay;

Land and sea

Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday;-
Thou Child of Joy,

Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts,
Thou happy Shepherd boy!

IV.

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see

The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival,

My head hath its coronal, The fullness of your bliss I feel-I feel it all. O evil day! if I were sullen While earth herself is adorning, This sweet May morning,

And the children are culling

On every side,

In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the Babe leaps up on his mother's arm:-
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!—
But there's a Tree, of many, one,

A single Field which I have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The pansy at my feet

Doth the same tale repeat:

Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

V.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close

Upon the growing boy,

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy;

The Youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, And by the vision splendid

Is on his way attended;

At length the man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.