Who could have thought, that there, ev'n there,

Amid those scenes so still and fair,

The Demon of the Plague hath cast

From his hot wing a deadlier blast,
More mortal far than ever came
From the red Desert's sands of flame!
So quick, that every living thing

Of human shape, touch'd by his wing,
Like plants, where the Simoom hath past,
At once falls black and withering!

The sun went down on many a brow,
Which, full of bloom and freshness then,

Is rankling in the pest-house now,
And ne'er will feel that sun again!

And oh! to see the' unburied heaps
On which the lonely moonlight sleeps —

The very vultures turn away,
And sicken at so foul a prey!

Only the fierce hyæna stalks"

Throughout the city's desolate walks

8 Jackson, speaking of the plague that occurred in West Barbary, when he was there, says, "The birds of the air fled away from The hyenas, on the contrary, visited the

the abodes of men.

cemeteries," &c.

Woe to the half-dead wretch, who meets

The glaring of those large blue eyes

Amid the darkness of the streets!

9

"Poor race of Men !" said the pitying Spirit, "Dearly ye pay for your primal Fall

"Some flow'rets of Eden

ye still inherit,

"But the trail of the Serpent is over them all!"

She wept the air grew pure and clear

Around her, as the bright drops ran;

For there's a magic in each tear,

Such kindly Spirits weep for man!

Just then beneath some orange trees,

Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze

Were wantoning together, free,

Like age at play with infancy

Beneath that fresh and springing bower,
Close by the Lake, she heard the moan

Of one who, at this silent hour,

Had thither stol'n to die alone.

9 Bruce,

One who in life, where'er he mov'd,
Drew after him the hearts of many;
Yet now, as though he ne'er were lov'd,

Dies here, unseen, unwept by any!

The fire that in his bosom lies,

With ev'n a sprinkle from that lake,
Which shines so cool before his eyes.
No voice, well-known through many a day,
To speak the last, the parting word,
Which, when all other sounds decay,
Is still like distant music heard.
That tender farewell on the shore
Of this rude world, when all is o'er,
Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark
Puts off into the unknown Dark.

Deserted youth! one thought alone
Shed joy around his soul in death
That she, whom he for years had known,
And lov'd, and might have call'd his own,
Was safe from this foul midnight's breath; -

L

Safe in her father's princely halls,

Where the cool airs from fountain falls,

Freshly perfum'd by many a brand

Of the sweet wood from India's land,

Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd.

But see, who yonder comes by stealth,

This melancholy bower to seek,

Like a young envoy, sent by Health,
With rosy gifts upon her cheek?

'Tis she-far off, through moonlight dim,
He knew his own betrothed bride,
She, who would rather die with him,

Than live to gain the world beside!
Her arms are round her lover now,

His livid cheek to hers she presses,
And dips, to bind his burning brow,
In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses.
Ah! once, how little did he think

An hour would come, when he should shrink
With horror from that dear embrace,

Those gentle arms, that were to him

Holy as is the cradling place

Of Eden's infant cherubim !

And now he yields

now turns away,

Shuddering as if the venom lay

All in those proffer'd lips alone

Those lips that, then so fearless grown,
Never until that instant came

Near his unask'd or without shame.

"Oh! let me only breathe the air,

"The blessed air, that's breath'd by thee, "And, whether on its wings it bear

Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me!

"There, drink my tears, while yet they fall,

"Would that my bosom's blood were balm, "And, well thou know'st, I'd shed it all,

"To give thy brow one minute's calm. 66 Nay, turn not from me that dear face

"Am I not thine - thy own lov'd bride· "The one, the chosen one, whose place

"In life or death is by thy side! "Think'st thou that she, whose only light, "In this dim world, from thee hath shone, "Could bear the long, the cheerless night, "That must be hers, when thou art gone?