Away by the lofty mount! And away by the lonely shore! And away by the gushing of many a fount, O for some warning vision, there, And hope and beauty blasted! That scenes so fair and hearts so gay A dream of other days! That land is a desert now! And grief grew up to dim the blaze 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 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, And Cyprus perish: I the Lord am just. And thou, who madest thy rampart of the sea, 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, - At the hour of goblet-pledge, Full white arm-sweep, from the edge. Sooth, the drinking should be ampler, Pan might dip his head so deep in 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 In the forms they thought of, now? Do not mock me! with my mortal, Which Anacreon used to feed; I may touch the brim of this. Go!-let others praise the Chian! This is tawny as Rhea's lion, Ah—but, sipping, — times and places Drew the ghosts from every part, 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!- How the cothurns trod majestic |