And this proud death is seemliest in the man
Who for a kindred race, a country bleeds:
Three hundred Spartans form the shining van
Of those, whom fame in this high triumph leads.
Great is the death, for a good prince incurr'd;
Who wields the sceptre with benignant hand:
Well may for him the noble bare his sword,
Falling he earns the blessings of a land.
Death for friend, parent, child, or her we love,
If not so great, is beauteous to behold:
This the fine tumults of the heart approve;
It is the walk to death unbought of gold.
But for mere majesty to meet a wound-
Who holds that great or glorious, he mistakes:
That is the fury of the pamper'd hound,
Which envy, anger, or the whip awakes.

And for a tyrant's sake to seek a jaunt

To hell's a death which only hell enjoys: Where such a hero falls-the gibbet plant, A murderer's trophy, and a plunderer's prize.

ANONYMOUS.

THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS,

On her Birthday.

FROM THE BOHEMIAN.

IF any white-wing'd power above

My joys and griefs survey,

The day when thou wert born, my love-
He surely bless'd that day.

I laugh'd (till taught by thee) when told
Of Beauty's magic powers,
That ripen'd life's dull ore to gold,
And changed its weeds to flowers.
My mind had lovely shapes portray'd;
But thought I earth had one
Could make even Fancy's visions fade
Like stars before the sun?

I gazed, and felt upon my lips
The' unfinish'd accents hang:

One moment's bliss, one burning kiss,
To rapture changed each pang.

CAMPBELL.

TO A MOURNER.

FROM THE DUTCH OF TOLLENS.

THE creeping worm that, wet and weary,
Was slumbering in its narrow cell,
Enraptured, bursts that prison dreary,
And, fluttering, leaves its wither'd shell:
Gently moving-gaily roving

Far away from earthly care;
Soaring brightly-wafted lightly
Through the boundless fields of air.

Thou, Mourner, dry that thoughtless tear,
And gaze no more upon the dead;
'Tis but a solitary bier!

No earthly spirit lingers there;

On wings of light to heaven 'tis fled!

BOWRING.

THE HOUSE OF SLEEP.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF ARIOSTO.

THE angel trusts her faith, nor longer stays,
But speeding from the convent wide displays
His rapid wings, to reach by noon of night
The house of Sleep with unremitting flight.

A pleasing vale beneath Arabia's skies,
From peopled towns and cities distant lies:
Two lofty mountains hide the depth below,
Where ancient firs and sturdy beeches grow.
The sun around reveals his cheering day,
But the thick grove admits no straggling ray
To pierce the boughs: immersed in secret shades,
A spacious cave the dusky rock pervades.
The creeping ivy on the front is seen,

And o'er the entrance winds her curling green.
Here drowsy Sleep has fix'd his noiseless throne,
Here Indolence reclines his limbs o'ergrown
Through sluggish ease; and Sloth, whose trem-
bling feet

Refuse their aid and sink beneath her weight.
Before the portal dull Oblivion goes,

He suffers none to pass, for none he knows.
Silence maintains the watch and walks the round
In shoes of felt, with sable garments bound;
And oft as any thither bend their pace,

He waves his hand, and warns them from the
HOOLE.

place.

THE DEATH OF ZERBINO.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF ARIOSTO.

His pains increase-and soon with shortening breath

He feels the certain chill approach of death.
The' enfeebled warrior now his courser stays,
And near a fountain's side his limbs he lays.
Ah! what avails the wretched virgin's grief?
What can she here to yield her lord relief?
In desert wilds for want she sees him die,
No friend to help, no peopled dwelling nigh,
Where she, for pity or reward, might find
Some skilful leech his streaming wounds to bind.
In vain she weeps-in vain with frantic cries
She calls on Fortune, and condemns the skies.
Why was I not in surging waters lost,
When first my vessel left Gallicia's coast?'
Zerbino, as his dying eyes he turned

On her, while thus her cruel fate she mourn'd,
More felt her sorrows than the painful strife
Of nature struggling on the verge of life.

My heart's sole treasure! mayst thou still,'
he said,

"When I, alas! am number'd with the dead,
Preserve my love-think not for death I grieve;
But thee, thus guideless and forlorn to leave,
Weighs heavy here-O! were my mortal date
Prolong'd to see thee in a happier staté,
Bless'd were this awful hour-content in death,
On that loved bosom to resign my breath.
But summon'd now at Fate's unpitying call,
Unknown what future lot to thee may fall-

By those soft lips, by those fond eyes I swear,
By those dear locks that could my heart ensnare!
Despairing to the shades of night I go,

Where thoughts of thee, left to a world of woe,
Shall rend this faithful breast with deeper pains
Than all that hell's avenging realm contains.'
At this, sad Isabella pour'd a shower

Of trickling tears, and lowly bending o'er,
Close to his mouth her trembling lips she laid,
His mouth now pale like some fair rose decay'd;
A vernal rose that, cropp'd before the time,
Bends the green stalk, and withers ere its prime.
'Think not,' she said, 'life of my breaking
Without thy Isabella to depart:

[heart!

Let no such fears thy dying bosom rend:
Where'er thou goest, my spirit shall attend:
One hour to both shall like dismission give,
Shall fix our doom, in future worlds to live,
And part no more-when ruthless death shall close
Thy fading eyes-that moment ends my woes!
Or should I still survive that stroke of grief,
At least thy sword will yield a sure relief.
And, ah! I trust, relieved from mortal state,
Each breathless corse shall meet a milder fate,
When some, in pity of our hapless doom,
May close our bodies in one peaceful tomb.'

Thus she and while his throbbing pulse she feels

Weak, and more weak, as death relentless steals
Each vital sense, with her sad lip she drains
The last faint breath of life that yet remains.

To raise his feeble voice Zerbino tried'I charge thee now-O loved in death,' he cried, " By that affection which thy bosom bore, When, for my sake, thou left'st thy father's shore,