THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. BY MRS. HEMANS. WHAT hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells? Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious Main! Pale glist'ning pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells, Bright things which gleam unreck'd of and in vain. Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea! We ask not such from thee. Yet more, the Depths have more !-What wealth untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Won from ten thousand royal Argosies. Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful Main! Earth claims not these again! Yet more, the Depths have more!--Thy waves have roll'd Above the cities of a world gone by! Yet more! the Billows and the Depths have more! 128 TREASURES OF THE DEEP. Give back the lost and lovely!-Those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long; The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown, -But all is not thine own! THE RETURN FROM INDIA. I CAME, but they had passed away, Where all are strange, and none are kind; Years have pass'd o'er me, like a dream, Some relic of a former age. Where stranger-voices mock my ear; I mark the lagging course of time, Without a wish-a hope-a fear! Yet I had hopes-and they are fled; "Tis but to bear a weary load, I may not, dare not cast away; As they, the loveliest of their race, With none to chide, to hear, to see. On one whom death disdains to free. I leave a world that knows me not, Where fancy's softest dreams are shed. But soon the last dim morn shall rise, Nor stone, nor monumental cross, Who sigh'd for gold, and found it dross. CHILDE HAROLD'S LAST PILGRIMAGE. WRITTEN AFER HAVING READ AN ACCOUNT OF HIS BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES. SO ENDS CHILDE HAROLD HIS LAST PILGRIMAGE! Above the Malian surge he stood, and cried "LIBERTY!" and the shores from age to age Renown'd, and Sparta's woods and rocks, replied, "Liberty!" but a Spectre, at his side, Stood, mocking-and its dart uplifting high Smote him-he sunk to earth in life's fair pride; While Sparta's rocks echo'd a fainter cry, And old Ílissus sigh'd-" die, generous Exile, die!" I will not ask sad Pity to deplore His wayward errors, who thus early died: Still less, CHILDE HAROLD-now, thou art no more, Will I speak aught of genius misapplied, Or the past shadows of thy spleen or pride; But I will bid the' Arcadian cypress wave, And pluck the laurel from Peneus' side, And pray thy Spirit may such quiet have, That not one thought unkind be murmur'd o'er thy grave, SO ENDS CHILDE HAROLD HIS LAST PILGRIMAGE! CHILDE HAROLD'S LAST PILGRIMAGE. 131 His pale cheek fading, where his brows were bound With their unfading wreath! I will not call The Nymphs from Pindus' piny shades profound, But strew some flowers upon thy sable pall, And follow to the grave a Briton's funeral. Slow move the plumed hearse-the mourning train— Where, Harold, thy forefathers mouldering lie; Who here, released from every human load, Receives her long-lost child to the same calm abode. Bursting Death's silence, could THAT MOTHER speak When first the earth was heap'd upon thy head, In thrilling, but with hollow accents weak, She thus might give the welcome of the Dead"Rest! rest! the Passions which the heart misled, Here, all are hush'd: the murmur of Life's Sea Here is not heard: Come, to my wormy bed! When both shall wake-FATHER, REMEMBER ME! And, Oh! my SON, my SON-HAVE MERCY UPON THEE!" Who does not involuntarily repeat the beautiful and affecting lines from the first Idyll of Theocritus, on the death of Daphnis, when he thinks of the death of Lord Byron in Greece: Πᾶ ποκ' ἆρ ̓ ἦσθ' δκα Δαφνι; ἐτάκετο, πο ποκας, Νύμφαιο |