Joyous it is in our fairy boat,

When dolphins sport on the trackless main, Like viewless spirits of air to float,

And steer to our sparry grot again.

Joyous it is with the fairy crew

To share the feast so daintily spreadTo quaff the honied and rainbow'd dew, And sip the perfume from roses shed.

Oh! when will the twilight hour arrive,
With its mystic sounds and its mystic sights!

For who in this dull cold world would live,
When fairy land offers such strange delights?

DEATH AND THE WORLD.

MRS. FLETCHER (MARIA JANE JEWSBURY), DIED OF ASIATIC CHOLERA, OCTOBER 3, 1833, WHILST ON HER WAY

FROM SHOLAPORE TO BOMBAY,

I CALL the world gay, good world,

Of its smiles and bounties free:

But Death, alas! is the king of this world,

And he holds a grave for me.

The world hath gold-it is bright and red;
It hath love, and the love is sweet;
And praise, like the song of a lovely lute; -
But all these with Death must meet.

Death will rust the gold, and the fervid love
He will bury beneath dark mould;
And the praise he will put in an epitaph,
Written on marble cold!

THE NIGHT OF THE NECKAR.

FROM THE KEEPSAKE," FOR 1828.

NECKAR, night is on thy stream,
Have the stars forgot to gleam?
'Tis the purple month of June,
Where has twilight fled so soon?
Never was a deeper shade

On thy wave by winter laid.

And the breeze that now was clinging

To thy flowers eternal springing;

And the sounds that on it stole,

Lulling all the sense, the soul:

Where are they? Dark, chill, and strong,

Sweeps the sudden gale along.

Neckar, thy pellucid wave

Loved these blossom'd banks to lave;
Lingering, like an infant's play,
On its joyous summer way:
Now that smooth and silver tide
Bursts a turrent wild and wide.

Hark! a fearful melody!

Swells it from the earth, or sky?
Like the sound of troubled sleep,
Joy might at its anguish weep;
Yet, as rolls its wondrous flow,
Mirth might mingle with the woe.

Now upon the waters dance
Flashes of the helm and lance;
Now emerging shapes are seen,
Robed in silk and jewell'd sheen;
Proudly follow'd, on the tide
Walk a chieftain and his bride.

And upon the river's breast
Seems a mighty pile to rest,
Rich with sculptures old and quaint,
Gilded martyr, marble saint;
While beneath its copins dim,
Sounds of holy chantings swim.

See a gleam above them plays;
Now it reddens to a blaze !
From the altar where they kneel
Bursts a sudden clash of steel:
Hark! the wild, soul-piercing cry
Lips can give but once, and die !

All is still! In blood and ashes,
Seen across the sinking flashes,
Leaning on his sabre bare,
Stands a figure of despair,
He who fired that holy hall :
Now he has his vengeance-all!

What is reeking by his side?
Ashes, that were once a bride :
What is blackening on the floor?
'Tis a brother's bosom-gore!

Terrors on his vision rise:

Murderer! thou hast had thy prize!

As decays the final spark,

Forms are flashing through the dark,
Shapes of giant fang and limb:
Down he sinks, and all is dim.
He is gone that parting ban
Never came from mortal man!

Ever, till the endless night,
Shall the lost one wing his flight;
Forced in tenfold pangs to gaze
On the pomp, the blood, the blaze,
At the hour the deed was done,

Neckar, while thy stream shall run!

LORD BYRON'S LAST VERSES.

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it hath ceased to move:

Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love.

My days are in the yellow leaf,

The flowers and fruits of love are gone;

The worm, the canker, and the grief,

Are mine alone.

The fire that in my bosom preys

Is like to some volcanic isle: No torch is kindled at its blaze

A funeral pile.

The hopes, the fears, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain,
And power of love I cannot share,

But wear the chain.

But 'tis not here, it is not here,

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now-

Where glory seals the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.