Some moments, aye, one treacherous hour, That parts not quite with parting breath; A gilded halo hovering round decay, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth. ROME. BYRON. THE Niobe of nations! there she stands, Childless and crownless, in her voiceless Wo; An empty urn within her wither'd hands, Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago; The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; The very sepulchres lie tenantless Of their heroic dwellers; dost thou flow, Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness? Rise with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress! The goth, the christian, time, war, flood, and fire, And thou, dread statue!+ yet existent in And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye been Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a pride; She saw her glories star by star expire, And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, Where the car climb'd the capitol; far and wide Temple and tower went down, nor left a scite : Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void, O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, And say, "here was, or is," where all is doubly night? scene? And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome! She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs im part The milk of conquest yet within the dome Where, as a monument of antique art, * "I have found." + Statue of Pompey. Thou standest mother of the mighty heart, Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat, The forum, where the immortal accents glow Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's etherial And still the eloquent air breathes-barns Oft, rising from the sea, the tempest lowers, And buoy'd on winds, the clouds majestic sail, Where Dart romantic winds its mazy course, And mossy rocks adhere to woody hills, From whence each creeping rill its store distils, Scatter their blossoms fast as falling showers, Along the grassy banks how sweet to stray, When the mild eve smiles in the glowing west, Or when the darkening clouds fly o'er the sea Where nectar'd flowers their sweets distil, Whose watery pearls reflect the day! And every joy of spring conspires ! Nature's wild songsters from each bush and tree Sweet whistling, carols the wild harmony! The robin pours soft streams of melody! Hail, Devon while through thy lov'd woods I stray, Tell each luxuriant bank where violets grow, BEAUTIES OF DEVON. CARRINGTON. FAIR are the provinces that England boasts, Lovely the verdure, exquisite the flowers, That bless her hills and dales,-her streamlets clear, Her seas majestic, and her prospects all, Of old, as now the pride of British song! But England sees not on her charming map, A goodlier spot than our fine Devon;-rich Art thou in all that Nature's hand can give, Land of the matchless view! The tyrant Sun Thy emerald bosom spares, for frequent showers Drop from the voyaging and friendly cloud, clothes The pleasant fields of thy Peninsula. MOUNT EDGCUMBE. CARRINGTON. BUT 'tis not LOCAL PREJUDICE that prompts Broke on our infant eyes, or where our cot Uprises, render'd precious by long years Of residence, may throw illusive grace Upon the hills, the vales, the woods, the streams That do encircle it, but thou hast charms Enchanting mount, which not the LOCAL LOVE Too highly values, or the genial West Alone enamour'd views, for thou art own'd Supreme in loveliness in this our isle, Profusely teeming with unrivall'd scenes! Thine is the monarch oak, the sturdy growth Of ages, long triumphant o'er decay; In soil and clime all-fav'ring as its own. For very mightiness, when wintry storms Are maddening the seas! O when the breath The lay, when EDGCUMBE is the inspiring Of Spring is on thy renovated hill, theme! Affection for one valued, honor'd, nook When all the buds are leaping into leaf, And the broad sheets of early foliage clothe Anew, thy waste of bough, delicious 'tis |