ON THE EGYPTIAN TOMB.

POMP of Egypt's elder day,
Shade of the mighty pass'd away,
(Whose giant works still frown sublime
'Mid the twilight shades of time ;)
Fanes of sculpture vast and rude,
That strew the sandy solitude,
Lo! before our startled eyes,
As at a wizard's wand, ye rise,
Glimm'ring larger through the gloom!
While on the secrets of the tomb,
Wrapt in other times, we gaze,
The Mother-Queen of ancient days,
Her mystic symbol in her hand,
Great ISIS seems herself to stand.

LINES,

WRITTEN ON HEARING THAT THE AUSTRIANS HAD ENTERED NAPLES.

Ay-down to the dust with them, slaves as they are ;
From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins,

That shrunk at the first touch of liberty's war,

Be suck'd out by tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

On, on, like a cloud, through their beautiful vales,
Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er,
Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails,

From each slave-mart of Europe, and poison their shore !

May their fate be a mock-word--may men of all lands
Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,
When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands,
Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls!

And deep, and more deep as the iron is driven,
Base slaves! may the whet of their agony be,

To think-as the damn'd haply think of that Heaven,

They had once in their reach-that they might have been free

When the world stood in hope, when a spirit that breathed
Full fresh of the olden time, whisper'd about,

And the swords of all Italy, half way unsheath'd,
But waited one conquering word to flash out;

When around you the shades of your mighty in fame,
Filicajas and Petrarchs, seem'd bursting to view,

And their swords and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame,
Over freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you.

Good God! that in such a proud moment of life,

Worth ages of history-when, had you hurl'd

One bolt at yon bloody invader, that strife

Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world.

That then-oh! disgrace upon manhood-e'en then,
You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath,
Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men ;
And prefer the slave's life of damnation to death!

It is strange it is dreadful-shout, tyranny! shout,
Through your dungeons and palaces, freedom is o'er-
If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out,
And return to your empire of darkness once more.

For if such are the braggarts that claim to be free, Come, despot of Russia, thy feet let me kissFar nobler to live the brute bondman of thee, Than to sully e'en chains by a struggle like this.

SLOW Sets the sun; his ray serene
He throws upon a lovely scene;
Blest scene! where once, as eagle free,
The Grecian hail'd thee, Liberty!
Where now the Turkish despot reigns,
And rules with iron rod the plains

Where Greece, while Greece remain'd, had fought
In Freedom's holy cause, and taught
The nations round to bend with fear
Before her brilliant high career.

Land of the freeman! canst thou be

So fall'n, so low in slavery ;

Land of the good, the brave, the wise,
Whose souls have sought their native skies,
Oh, can thy children but look on

The ruin'd pile, the mould'ring stone,
Which once were Grecia's halls of state,
Where Senates held their grave debate?
Or can this slavish, abject son,
Look on thy plain, O Marathon?
Or stand, with soul unmoved, and see
Thy well-fought pass, Thermopyla?-
Or gaze on Leuctra's hallow'd plain,
And think on all those scenes in vain ?-
Ye sacred brave! in vain ye died-
In vain has flow'd the purple tide
Of millions, at their country's call-
Vain were your efforts, vain your fall!-
Your fame forgot, your valour gone--
Your name despised, remains alone.

LORD BYRON TO MR T. MOORE.

My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea:

But ere I go, Tom Moore,

Here's a double health to thee.

Here's a sigh for those I love,
And a smile for those I hate,
And, whatever sky's above,
Here's heart for any fate.

Though the ocean roar around me,
It still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.

Were it the last drop in the well,
As I gasp'd on the brink,

Ere my fainting spirits fell,

'Tis to thee that I would drink.

In that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour

Should be-Peace to thee and thine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore !

VOL. XIV. PART 11.

APPENDIX.