are still the same; alike they mock
The invader's menace, and the tempest's shock;
Such ere the world had bow'd at Cæsar's Throne,
Ere proud Rome's all-conquering name was known,
They stood, and fleeting centuries in vain
Have pour'd their fury o'er the enduring fane;
Such long shall stand-proud relicks of a clime
Where man was glorious, and his works sublime;
While in the progress of their long decay,
Thrones sink to dust, and Nations pass away.
Es zog aus Berlin ein muthiger Held.
WHO burst from Berlin with his lance in his hand?
Who ride at his heel, like the rush of the wave?
They are warriors of Prussia, the flower of the land,
And 'tis Schill leads them on to renown, and the grave.
Six hundred they come, in pomp and in pride,
Their chargers are fleet, and their bosoms are bold,
And deep shall their lances in vengeance be dyed,
Ere those chargers shall halt, or those bosoms be cold.
Then, through wood and through mountain, their trumpet rang clear,
And Prussia's old banner was waved to the sun,
And the yager in green, and the blue musketeer,
By thousands they rose, at the bidding of one.
What summon'd this spirit of grandeur from gloom?
Was he call'd from the camp, was he sent from the throne?
'Twas the voice of his country-it came from his tomb,
And it rises to bless his name, now that he's gone.
Remember him Dodendorff: yet on thy plain
Are the bones of the Frenchmen, that fell by his blade ;—
At sunset they saw the first flash of his vane,
By twilight, three thousand were still as its shade.
Then, Domitz, thy ramparts in crimson were dyed,
No longer a hold for the tyrant and slave;—
Then to Pommern he rush'd, like a bark on the tide,
The tide has swept on to renown and the grave.
Fly, slaves of Napoleon, for vengeance is come;
Now plunge in the earth, now escape on the wind;
With the heart of the vulture, now borrow its plume,
For Schill and his riders are thundering behind.
All gallant and gay they came in at the gate,
That gate that old Wallenstein proudly withstood,
Once frowning and crowned, like a King in his state,
Though now its dark fragments but shadow the flood.
Then up flash'd the sabre, the lance was couch'd low,
And the trench and the street were a field and a grave;
For the sorrows of Prussia gave weight to the blow,
And the sabre was weak in the hand of the slave.
Oh Schill! Oh Schill! thou warrior of fame!
In the field, in the field, spur thy charger again;
Why bury in ramparts and fosses the flame
That should burn upon mountain, and sweep over plain!
Stralsund was his tomb; thou city of woe!
His banner no more on thy ramparts shall wave;
The bullet was sent, and the warrior lies low,
And cowards may trample the dust of the brave.
Then burst into triumph the Frenchman's base soul,
As they came round his body with scoff and with cry,
"Let his limbs toss to heaven on the gibbet and pole,
In the throat of the raven and dog let him lie."
Thus they hurried him on, without trumpet or toll,
No anthem, no pray'r, echoed sad on the wind,
No peal of the cannon, no drums muffled roll,
Told the love and the sorrow that linger'd behind.
They cut off his head-but your power is undone;
In glory he sleeps, till the trump on his ear
In thunder shall summon him up to the throne;
And the tyrant and victim alike shall be there.
When the charge is begun, and the Prussian hussar
Comes down like a tempest with steed and with steel,
In the clash of the swords, he shall give thee a prayer,
And his watchward of vengeance be “ Schill, brave Schill!"
THE GOD AND THE BAYADERE.
MAHADEOH, lord of Earth,
For the sixth time comes below,
Like to men of mortal birth,
Will he suffer joy and woe-
Earthly griefs he'll learn to bear,
Every lot of man will try,
Ere he chasten, ere he spare,
Mortals scan with mortal eye.
Through the city's wide mazes he marks ev'ry lot,
He lurks round the palace and visits the cot,
And he loves 'mid the shadows of evening to spy.
Where the suburbs tempt his way
Toward the river's cooling breeze,
With painted cheek and winning play,
A lost and lovely fair he sees-
"Greet thee, damsel,"-" Thank thee, dear :
"Come, an hour of rapture prove,"
"Who art thou, maid?"-" A Bayadere
"And this the joyous home of love"
She waves her bright arms to the glad cymbal's sound,
And lovely her form floats in light mazes round;
She bends and she proffers a wreath from the grove.
Flattering, to her door inclining,
On she leads from room to room-
"Beauteous Stranger, softly shining
Lamps shall quick my bow'r illume;
Art thou weary ?-gently laving,
I will soothe thy aching feet;
All thou will'st attends thy craving,-
Rest, or love, or frolic sweet."
She busily lightens his well-feigned woes;
The god brightly smiles, and his glad spirit glows,
Midst the ruins of error, a warm heart to meet.
He bids her act a bond-maid's part-
Without plaint does she obey;
All the maiden's early art
Gently yields to nature's sway.
So where tender blossoms glow,
Slowly-budding fruits appear;
Does the soul obedience know,
Love the gentle guest is near.
But sharper and sharper the maiden to prove,
The seer of souls shall call from above
Passion, and horror, and transport, and fear.
And her beauteous cheek he presses-
And she feels love's melting woe-
Nature all the maid confesses,
And her first of tear-drops flow.
At his feet she sinks declining,
Not for pleasure, not for gain!
Ah! her limbs their life resigning,
Can no more her form sustain.-
Night her soft shades on their pillow is shedding,
The veil of her gloom round their pleasures is spreading,
And love bids the moments blissfully wane.
Slumbering late from fond embrace,
Soon she starts from troubled rest-
And sees that best-beloved face,
Lifeless laid upon her breast-
Shrieking, falls she on her chosen-
Ah! she cannot wake the dead;—
Soon those limbs all chill and frozen
To the funeral flame are sped.
She hears the loud Brahmin-she hears the death songShe runs-and she raves-and she pierces the throng"Who art thou?—what hurries him hence to the dead?”
Before the bier her form she throws,
And her wailings rend the air-
"Give me back my lovely spouse-
On the pile I'll seek him there.
And to ashes must they fall,
Those dear limbs, so heavenly bright ?
Mine he was! mine, more than all!
Ah! one only blissful night.”
But sternly the priest sings!
Long wasting in wanness, and chilling in cold—
We carry the young from gay youth's giddy flight."
"To the Brahmin's lore give ear—
This was ne'er thy husband true-
Liv'st thou still a Bayadere,
Wedded rights are not thy due.
Shade alone with substance flies
To the darkling realms of night-
Wife alone with husband dies-
'Tis her glory-'tis her right.
Then sound the loud timbrels-the holy plaints ring!.
Oh, take him, ye Gods!-take the pride of the spring!
Oh take the fair youth to celestial light!”
At the choir's unpitying shout,
Deeper woe her bosom wrings;
With streaming hair and arm stretched out,
Midst the flaming death she springs
Lo! above the flames they hover
Youth and maid together rise
In his arms, the immortal lover
Bears her with him to the skies.
Bright joy fills the gods for the souls they reclaim--
The lost sons of error, on pinions of flame,
Immortally soar to repose in the skies.
From Atherstone's Last Days of Herculaneum.
Soon cover'd all things;—and the close, hot air,
Felt suffocating. Some who linger'd still,
Or ere retiring to their sleepless beds,
Look'd out into the night, saw on the sky,
Tow'rds where Vesuvius rear'd his giant head,
A crimson tinge :-and in the stilly air
The deep and soften'd thunder-mutterings heard.
A night of gloom and horrors !-Not a breath
Of air was felt-the thick hot atmosphere
Came on their parching lips, as from the mouth
Of opening furnace. Darkness, like a pall
Of deepest shade, hung o'er :-no heaven, no earth,
No faintest outline of the temple's form
Against the sky-the uplifted hand was viewless :-
Scarce could the clogg'd and heavy air transmit
The labouring sound: scarce could the torch's flare
Pierce through the gloom; and he who by its red
And dusky light then wander'd through the streets,
Lonely and sad, saw not the earth he press'd.
Oh! for the tempest now! the clattering hail!
Whirlwinds! tornadoes! deluge-bringing rain!
Aught but this heavy-pressing firmament-
This thick and torrid air-this tomblike night!
Who sleeps within the city ?-He, the sire,
Who, labouring hard for breath, with burning brow,
And tense and blood-shot eye,-yet fans the cheek
Of his convulsed and gasping child?
The wretched mother, who the fiery skin
Of her delirious infant laves ;-the lips
That can no longer drain the dried-up breast,
Wets with the water from the once cool well,
Itself now scarce less burning?
The new-made bridegroom, by the virgin bride
Outstretch'd,-who prays, though with unmoving lips,
For aid in their last hour of agony?
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