BY DELTA.

It is a desolate eve;

Dim, cheerless is the scene my path around;—
Patters the rain; the breeze-stirred forests grieve;
And wails the stream with melancholy sound:
While, at my feet, behold,

With vigorous talons clenched, and bright eye shut,
With proud curved beak, and wiry plumage bold,
Thou liest, dead eagle of the desert; but
Preserving yet in look thy tameless mood,

As if, though stilled by death, thy heart were unsubdued.

How cam'st thou to thy death?

Did lapsing years o'ercome, and leave thee weak,—
Or whirlwinds, on thy heaven-descending path,
Dash thee against the precipice's peak?—
'Mid rack and floating cloud

Did scythe-winged lightning flash athwart thy brain,
And drive thee, from thine elevation proud,
Down whirling lifeless to the dim-seen plain?—
I know not-may not guess; but here, alone,
Lifeless thou liest, outstretched beside the desert stone.

A proud life hath been thine!

High on the herbless rock thou 'wok'st to birth,
And, gazing down, saw far beneath thee shine
Outstretched, horizon-girt, the map-like earth.
What rapture must have gushed

Warm round thy heart, when first thy wings essayed,
Adventurously, their heaven-ward flight, and rushed
Up towards day's blazing eye-star, undismayed,—
Above the space's vacancy unfurled,

And, far receded down, the dim material world!

How fast-how far-how long

Thine had it been from rack-veiled eyrie high
To swoop, and still the wood-lark's lyric song,
The leveret's gambols, and the lambkin's cry?

The terror-stricken dove

Cowered down amid the oak-wood's central shade;
While ferny glens below, and cliffs above,
To thy fierce shriek responsive echo made,
Carrying the wild alarm from vale to vale,

That thou, the forest king, wert out upon the gale!

When downward glens were dark,

And o'er moist earth glowed morning's rosy star,
High o'er the scarce-tinged clouds 't was thine to mark
The orient chariot of the sun afar:

And, oh! how grand to soar

Beneath the full moon, on strong pinion driven;
To pierce the regions of grey cloud-land o'er,
And drift amid the star-isled seas of heaven!
Even like a courier sent from earth to hold
With space-dissevered worlds, unawed communion bold.

Dead king-bird of the waste!

And is thy curbless span of freedom o'er?

No more shall thine ascending form be traced?
And shall the hunter of the hills no more
Hark to thy regal cry?

While rising o'er the stream-girt vales, thy form,
Lessening, commingles with the azure sky,
Glimpsed 'mid the masses of the gathering storm,
As if it were thy proud resolve to see

Betwixt thee and dim earth the zig-zag lightnings flee!

A child of freedom thou!

Thy birthright the tall cliff and sky beyond:
Thy feet are fetterless; thy fearless brow
Ne'er, quailing, tyrant man's dominions owned.
But nature's general law

The slave and freeman must alike obey:

Pride reels; and Power, that kept a world in awe, The dreadful summons hears ;-and where are they?— Vanished like night-dreams from the sleeper's mind, Dusk 'mid dissolving day, or thunder on the wind! Literary Souvenir.

A LAMENT FOR CHIVALRY.

ALAS! the days of Chivalry are fled!

The brilliant tournament exists no more! Our loves are cold and dull as ice or lead, And courting is a most enormous bore!

In those good "olden times,” a “ladye bright” Might sit within her turret or her bower, While lovers sang and played without all night, And deemed themselves rewarded by a flower.

Yet, if

one

favoured swain would persevere, In despite of her haughty scorn and laugh, Perchance she threw him, with the closing year, An old odd glove, or else a worn-out scarf.

And he a thousand oaths of love would swear,
As, in an ecstasy, he caught the prize;
Then would he gallop off, the lord knows were,
Telling another thousand monstrous lies;-

All picturing her matchless beauty, which

He might discern, I ween, not much about, Seeing he could but see her 'cross the ditch,

As she between the lattice bars peeped out.

Off then, away he'd ride o'er sea and land,

And dragons fell and mighty giants smite, With the tough spear he carried in his hand :

And all to prove himself her own true knight.

Meanwhile, a thousand more, as wild as he, Were all employed about the self-same thing; And having ridden hard for each "ladye,"

They all came back, and met within a ring:

Where all the men who were entitled "Syr"
Appeared with martial air and haughty frown,
Bearing "long poles, each other up to stir,"

And, in the stir up, thrust each other down.

And then they galloped round with dire intent,
Each knight resolved another's pride to humble;
And laughter rang around the tournament,

As oft as any of them had a tumble.

And when, perchance, some ill-starred wight might die,
The victim of a stout unlucky poke,

Mayhap some fair-one wiped one beauteous eye,—
The rest smiled calmly on the deadly joke.

Soon then the lady, whose grim stalwart swain
Had got the strongest horse and toughest pole,
Bedecked him kneeling with a golden chain,
And plighted troth before the motley whole.

Then trumpets sounded, bullocks whole were drest,
Priests with shorn heads and lengthy beards were seen;
'Mid clamorous shouts the happy pair were blest,
For Chivalry won Beauty's chosen queen.

And when fair daughters bloomed like beauteous flowers,
To bless the gallant knight and stately dame,
They shut them up within their lonely towers,
That squires might fight for them and win them fame.

But maidens now from hall and park are brought,
Like Covent-Garden flowers, in lots, to Town:
No more by prowess in the lists 't is sought-
Beauty's the purchase of the wealthiest clown!

Alas! the days of Chivalry are fled!

The brilliant tournament exists no more!
Men now are cold and dull as ice or lead,
And even courtship is a dreadful bore!

Literary Gazette.

THE COMPLAINT.

A BALLAD.

REST, rest, dear babe! in balmy sleep reposing,
No care, no sorrow moves thy tranquil breast;
Rest, till the dawn thy gentle eyes unclosing,

Shall wake that smile in which alone I'm blest.

Hush thee, sweet babe! let nought disturb thy slumbers,
Thy mother fondly o'er thy cradle hung,

Thus frames for thee the soothing favourite numbers,
For thee her vigils thus beguiles with song.

Alas! my child, for thee no father's bosom
Throbs to soft sympathy and fond alarm;

No sheltering arm protects thy tender blossom,

And screens its weakness from life's gathering storm.

In vain with tears and suppliant accents blended,
His infant seeks its sacred rights to claim;
Though truth and honour for those claims contended,
Honour and truth-to him—are but a name.

Vainly to him this faithful heart appealing,

Which passion's tenderest, truest flame still warms, Urges those oft-pledged vows, each generous feeling, Though now forgot—which gave me to his arms.

How can he thus forego the soft relations,
That bind with mutual ties his soul to me?
How can he lose those ever-dear sensations,
Which swell to rapture as I gaze on thee?

Oft o'er thy lovely form while pensive musing,
His smile, his features, with delight I trace,
Each painful thought in melting fondness losing,
I clasp his image in my child's embrace.