Away by the lofty mount!

And away by the lonely shore!

And away by the gushing of many a fount,
Where fountains gush no more!

O for some warning vision, there,
Some voice that should have spoken
Of climes to be laid waste and bare,
And glad young spirits broken!
Of waters dried away,

And hope and beauty blasted!

That scenes so fair and hearts so gay
Should be so early wasted!

A dream of other days!

That land is a desert now!

And grief grew up to dim the blaze
Upon that royal brow!

The whirlwind's burning wind hath cast

Blight on the marble plain,

And sorrow, like the simoom, past

O'er Cleopatra's brain!

Too like her fervid clime, that bred

Its self-consuming fires,

Her breast, like Indian widows, fed
Its own funereal pyres!

Not such the song her minstrels sing,

66

Live, beauteous, and forever!"

As the vessel darts, with its purple wing,

Away, down the golden river!

Thomas Kibble Hervey.

Cyprus, the Island.

SONNET

ON THE SIEGE OF FAMAGUSTA, IN THE ISLAND OF CYPRUS, BY THE TURKS, IN 1571.

NHUS saith the Lord: "In whom shall Cyprus trust,

THUS

With all her crimes, her luxury, and pride?

In her voluptuous loves will she confide,
Her harlot-daughters, and her queen of lust?
My day is come when o'er her neck in dust
Vengeance and fury shall triumphant ride,
Death and captivity the spoil divide,

And Cyprus perish: I the Lord am just.
Then he that bought, and he that sold in thee,
Thy princely merchants, shall their loss deplore,
Brothers in ruin as in fraud before;

And thou, who madest thy rampart of the sea,
Less by thy foes cast down than crushed by me!
Thou, Famagusta! fall, and rise no more."

James Montgomery.

WINE OF CYPRUS.

GIVEN TO ME BY H. S. BOYD, AUTHOR OF

SELECT PASSAGES

FROM THE GREEK FATHERS," ETC., TO WHOM THESE STANZAS ARE ADDRESSED.

F old Bacchus were the speaker

IF

He would tell you with a sigh,

Of the Cyprus in this beaker

I am sipping like a fly, -
Like a fly or gnat on Ida

At the hour of goblet-pledge,
By queen Juno brushed aside, a

Full white arm-sweep, from the edge.

Sooth, the drinking should be ampler,
When the drink is so divine;
And some deep-mouthed Greek exampler
Would become your Cyprus wine!
Cyclop's mouth might plunge aright in,
While his one eye over-leered,
Nor too large were mouth of Titan,
Drinking rivers down his beard.

Pan might dip his head so deep in
That his ears alone pricked out,
Fauns around him, pressing, leaping,
Each one pointing to his throat:
While the Naiads like Bacchantes,

Wild, with urns thrown out to waste,

Cry, "O earth, that thou wouldst grant us Springs to keep, of such a taste!"

But for me, I am not worthy

After gods and Greeks to drink; And my lips are pale and earthy To go bathing from this brink. Since you heard them speak the last time, They have faded from their blooms, And the laughter of my pastime

Has learnt silence at the tombs.

Ah, my friend! the antique drinkers
Crowned the cup, and crowned the brow.
Can I answer the old thinkers

In the forms they thought of, now?
Who will fetch from garden-closes
Some new garlands while I speak,
That the forehead, crowned with roses,
May strike scarlet down the cheek?

Do not mock me! with my mortal,
Suits no wreath again, indeed!
I am sad-voiced as the turtle

Which Anacreon used to feed;
Yet as that same bird demurely
Wet her beak in cup of his, -
So, without a garland, surely

I may touch the brim of this.

Go!-let others praise the Chian!
This is soft as Muses' string,

This is tawny as Rhea's lion,
This is rapid as its spring,
Bright as Paphia's eyes e'er met us,
Light as ever trod her feet!
And the brown bees of Hymettus
Make their honey not so sweet.

Ah—but, sipping, — times and places
Change before me suddenly-
As Ulysses' old libation

Drew the ghosts from every part,
So your Cyprus wine, dear Grecian,
Stirs the Hades of my heart.

And I think of those long mornings Which my thought goes far to seek, When, betwixt the folio's turnings, Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek. Past the pane, the mountain spreading, Swept the sheep-bell's tinkling noise, While a girlish voice was reading, – Somewhat low for a's and ot's.

Then what golden hours were for us!-
While we sate together there,
While the white vests of the chorus
Seemed to wave up a live air!

How the cothurns trod majestic
Down the deep iambic lines;