POETRY.

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THE CORSAIR, BY LORD BYRON.

The Pirate's Song.

'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea,

Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, "Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,

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Survey our empire and behold our home!

"These are our realms, no limits to their sway-
"Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
"Ours the wild life in tumult still to range
"From toil to rest, and joy in every change.
"Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave!
"Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave;
"Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease!
"Whom slumber soothes not-pleasure cannot please—
"Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried,
"And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide,
"The exulting sense-the pulse's maddening play,
"That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
"That for itself can woo the approaching fight,
"And turn what some deem danger to delight;
"That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal,
"And where the feebler faint-can only feel-
"Feel-to the rising bosom's inmost core,
"Its hope awaken and its spirit soar?

"No dread of death-if with us die our foes-
"Save that it seems even duller than repose:
"Come when it will-we snatch the life of life—
"When lost-what recks it-by disease or strife?
"Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay,

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Cling to his couch, and sicken years away;

"Heave his thick breath; and shake his palsied head; "Ours-the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed.

"While gasp by gasp he faulters forth his soul, "Ours with one pang- -one bound-escapes controul. "His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, "And they who loath'd his life may gild his grave: "Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, "When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. "For us, even banquets fond regret supply "In the red cup that crowns our memory; "And the brief epitaph in danger's day, "When those who win at length divide the prey, "And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow, "How had the brave who fell exulted now!"

ATHENIAN PROSPECT.

FROM THE SAME.

SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
Along Morea's hills the setting sun;
Not as in Northern climes obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light!
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows.
On old Ægina's rock, and Idra's isle,

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile;
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.
Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss
Thy glorious gulph, unconquer'd Salamis !
Their azure arches through the long expanse
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance,
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,
Mark his gay course and own the hues of heaven;
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast,
When-Athens! here thy wisest look'd his last.
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murder'd sage's latest day!
Not yet not yet-Sol pauses on the hill-
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
But sad his light to agonizing eyes,

And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes:
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour,
The land, where Phoebus never frown'd before,
But ere he sunk below Citharon's head,
The cup of woe was quaff'd-the spirit fled;

The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly-
Who lived and died, as none can live or die!

But lo from high Hymettus to the plain,
The queen of night asserts her silent reign.
No murky vapour, herald of the storm,
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ;
With cornice glimmering as the moon-beams play,
There the white column greets her grateful ray,
And bright around with quivering beams beset
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret:
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide
Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide,
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk,
And, dun and sombre 'inid the holy calm,
Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm,
All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye-
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by.

Again the Ægean, heard no more afar,
Lulls his chaf'd breast from elemental war;
Again his waves in milder tints unfold
Their long array of sapphire and of gold,

Mixt with the shades of many a distant isle,

That frown-where gentler ocean seems to smile.

And now that heart's rich tide is chill,
That horn is silent on the hill,

The gallant chace is done;

Scatter'd and sunk, the mountain band
Threw the loved rifle from their hand,
The soul of fight is gone!

But God is all.-Vain warrior-skill,
Vain the high soul, the mighty will,
Before the word of Heav'n :-
The helm that on the chieftain's brow,
Flash'd fire against the morning's glow,
His blood may dim at ev'n.

Yet, Hofer! in that hour of ill
Thine was a brighter laurel still
Than the red field e'er gave;
The crown immortal liberty
Gives to the few that dare to die
And seek her in the grave.

Who saw, as levelled the Chasseur
His deadly aim, the shade of fear
Pass o'er the Hero's brow?
Who saw his dark eyes' martial gaze
Turn from the muskets' volley'd blaze
That laid him calm and low?

ON RAUCH'S BUST OF QUEEN LOUISA OF PRUSSIA.

FROM THE SAME.

How lovely still, though now no more
Thy locks in auburn beauty pour;
No more thine eye, of humid blue,
Beams like the star thro' evening dew:
Forbid alike to beam and weep,

Those orbs are closed in marble sleep,
Those braids in moveless marble twine;
Princess! thy throne is now thy shrine.
Yet, matchless as in life, the spell
Loves on that pallid lip to dwell;
And still the soul's immortal glow
Is radiant on that dazzling brow.
Soft be thy slumbers, soft and deep,
Till start thy people from their sleep;
Till thousand beacons, blazing bright,
Shake their wild splendors on the night;