Closed is thy regal course—thy crest is torn,
And thy plume banish'd from the realms of morn.
The shaft hath reach'd thee!—rest with chiefs and
kings,

Who conquer'd in the shadow of thy wings;
Sleep! while thy foes exult around their prey,
And share thy glorious heritage of day!
"But darker years shall mingle with the past,
And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last.
O'er the seven hills I see destruction spread,
And Empire's widow veils with dust her head!
Her gods forsake each desolated shrine,
Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine:
'Midst fallen palaces she sits alone,
Calling heroic shades from ages gone,
Or bids the nations 'midst her deserts wait
To learn the fearful oracles of Fate!

"Still sleep'st thou, Roman? Son of Victory, rise!

Wake to obey th* avenging Destinies!

Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country's blood

Shall swell and darken Tiber's yellow flood I

My children's manes call—awake! prepare

The feast they claim!—exult in Rome's despair!

Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries,

Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies;

Let carnage revel, e'en her shrines among,

Spare not the valiant, pity not the young!

Haste! o'er her hills the sword's libation shed,

And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head!"

The vision flies—a mortal step is near,
Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer's ear;
He starts, he wakes to woe—before him stands
Th* unwelcome messenger of harsh commands,
Whose falt'ring accents tell the exiled chief,
To seek on other shores a home for grief.
—Silent the wanderer sat—but on his cheek
The burning glow far more than words might speak;
And, from the kindling of his eye, there broke
Language, where all th' indignant soul awoke,
Till his deep thought found voice—then, calmly
stern,

And sovereign in despair, he cried, "Return!
Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen
Marius, the exile, rest where Carthage once hath
been!"

SONG.

POUNDED ON AN ARABIAN ANECDOTE*

Away! though still thy sword is red

With life-blood from my sire, No drop of thine may now be shed

To quench my bosom's fire;
Though on my heart 'twould fall more blest,
Than dews upon the desert's breast.

Fve sought thee 'midst the sons of men,
Through the wide city's fanes;

I've sought thee by the lion's den,
O'er pathless, boundless plains;

No step that mark'd the burning waste,

But mine its lonely course hath traced.

Thy name hath been a baleful spell,

O'er my dark spirit cast; No thought may dream, no words may tell,

What there unseen hath pass'd:
This wither'd cheek, this faded eye,
Are seals of thee—behold! and fly!

Hath not my cup for thee been pour'd,
Beneath the palm-tree's shade?

Hath not soft sleep thy frame restored,
Within my dwelling laid?

What though unknown—yet who shall rest

Secure—if not the Arab's guest?

Haste thee! and leave my threshold-floor,

Inviolate and pure!
Let not thy presence tempt me more,

—Man may not thus endure! Away! I bear a fetter'd arm, A heart that burns—but must not harm J

Begone! outstrip the swift gazelle!

The wind in speed subdue!
Fear cannot fly so swift, so well,

As vengeance shall pursue;
And hate, like love, in parting pain,
Smiles o'er one hope—we meet again!

To-morrow—and th' avenger's hand,

The warrior's dart is free! E'en now, no spot in all thy land,

Save this, had shelter'd thee, Let blood the monarch's hall profane,— The Arab's tent must bear no stain!

Fly! may the desert's fiery blast

Avoid thy secret way!
And sternly, till thy steps be past,

Its whirlwinds sleep to-day!
I would not that thy doom should be
Assign'd by Heaven to aught but me.

ALP-HORN SONG.

TRANSLATED PROM THE OERMA.N OF TIECK.

What dost thou here, brave Swiss?
Forgett'st thou thus thy native clime—
The lovely land of thy bright spring-time?
The land of thy home, with its free delights,
And fresh green valleys and mountain heights?

Can the stranger's yield thee bliss?

What welcome cheers thee now? Dar'st thou lift thine eye to gaze around? Where are the peaks, with their snow-wreaths crown'd? Where is the song, on the wild winds borne, Or the ringing peal of the joyous horn,

Or the peasant's fearless brow?

But thy spirit is far away! Where a greeting waits thee in kindred eyes, Where the white Alps look through the sunny skies, With the low senn-cabins, and pastures free, And the sparkling blue of the glacier-sea,

And the summits, clothed with day I

Back, noble child of Tell! Back to the wild and the silent glen, And the frugal board of peasant-men! Dost thou seek the friend, the loved one, here ?— Away! not a true Swiss heart is near,

Against thine own to swell!