Were it the last drop in the well,
As I gasped on the brink,

Ere my fainting spirits fell,
'Tis to thee that I would drink.

In that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour,

Should be-Peace to thee and thine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore.

TO LADY HOLLAND,

On the LEGACY of a SNUFF-Box, left to her by BUONAPARte. By the Earl of Carlisle.

LADY, reject the gift! 'tis ting'd with gore!

Those crimson spots a dreadful tale relate:

It has been grasp'd by an infernal Power;

And by that hand which seal'd young Enghien's fate.

Lady, reject the gift! beneath it's lid

Discord, and Slaughter, and relentless War, With every plague to wretched Man lie hid Let not these loose to range the world afar.

Say, what congenial to his heart of stone,

In thy soft bosom could the Tyrant trace?
When does the dove the eagle's friendship own,
Or the wolf hold the lamb in pure embrace?

Think of that pile, to Addison so dear,

Where Sully feasted, and where Rogers' song
Still adds sweet music to the perfum'd air,

And gently leads each Grace and Muse along.

Pollute not then these scenes-the gift destroy:
'Twill scare the Dryads from that lovely shade;
With them will fly all rural peace and joy,

And screaming Fiends their verdant haunts invade.

That mystic Box hath magic power to raise
Spectres of myriads slain, à ghastly band;
They'll vex thy slumbers, cloud thy sunny days,
Starting from Moscow's snows, or Egypt's sand.

And ye, who, bound in Verdun's treacherous chains,
Slow pin'd to death beneath a base controul,
Say, shall not all abhor, where Freedom reigns,
That petty vengeance of a little soul?

The warning Muse no idle trifler deem;

Plunge the curst mischief in wide Ocean's flood; Or give it to our own majestic stream,

The only stream he could not dye with blood.

THE NEWDIGATE PRIZE POEM, 1821.

By the Hon. G. W. F. Howard, of Christ Church.
PÆSTUM.

'MID the deep silence of the pathless wild,
Where kindlier nature once profusely smil'd,
Th' eternal TEMPLES stand;-untold their age,
Untrac'd their annals in Historic Page;
All that around them stood, now far away,
Single in ruin, mighty in decay,

Between the mountains and the azure main,
They claim the empire of the lonely plain.
In solemn beauty, through the clear blue light,
The Doric columns rear their massive height,
Emblems of strength untam'd; yet conquering Time
Has mellow'd half the sternness of their prime,
And bade the lichen, 'mid their ruins grown,
Imbrown with darker tints the vivid stone.
Each channel'd pillar of the fane appears
Unspoil'd, yet soften'd by consuming years;
So calmly awful, so serenely fair,

The gazer's heart still mutely worships there.
Not always thus-when beam'd beneath the day;
No fairer scene than Pæstum's lovely bay;
When her light soil bore plants of ev'ry hue,
And twice each year her storied roses blew ;
While Bards her blooming honours lov'd to sing,
And Tuscan zephyrs fann'd the eternal spring.
Proud in her port the Tyrian moor'd his fleet,
And Wealth and Commerce fill'd the peopled street;
While here the rescued Mariner ador'd,

The Sea's dread sovereign, Posidonia's lord,
With votive tablets deck'd yon hallow'd walls,

Or sued for Justice in her crowded halls.

There stood on high the white-rob'd Flamen-there
The opening portal pour'd the choral prayer;

While to the o'er-arching Heaven swell'd full the sound,
And incense blaz'd, and myriads knelt around.
'Tis past: the echoes of the plain are mute,
E'en to the herdsman's call or shepherd's flute;
The toils of Art, the charms of Nature fail,
And Death triumphant rides the tainted gale.
From the lone spot the trembling peasants haste,
A wild the garden, and the town a waste.

But THEY are still the same; alike they mock
The invader's menace, and the tempest's shock;
Such ere the world had bow'd at Cæsar's Throne,
Ere proud Rome's all-conquering name was known,
They stood, and fleeting centuries in vain
Have pour'd their fury o'er the enduring fane;
Such long shall stand-proud relicks of a clime
Where man was glorious, and his works sublime;
While in the progress of their long decay,
Thrones sink to dust, and Nations pass away.

SCHIL L.

Es zog aus Berlin ein muthiger Held.

WHO burst from Berlin with his lance in his hand?
Who ride at his heel, like the rush of the wave?
They are warriors of Prussia, the flower of the land,
And 'tis Schill leads them on to renown, and the grave.

Six hundred they come, in pomp and in pride,
Their chargers are fleet, and their bosoms are bold,
And deep shall their lances in vengeance be dyed,

Ere those chargers shall halt, or those bosoms be cold.

Then, through wood and through mountain, their trumpet rang clear, And Prussia's old banner was waved to the sun,

And the yager in green, and the blue musketeer,

By thousands they rose, at the bidding of one.

What summon'd this spirit of grandeur from gloom?

Was he call'd from the camp, was he sent from the throne?
'Twas the voice of his country-it came from his tomb,
And it rises to bless his name, now that he's

Remember him Dodendorff: yet on thy plain

gone.

Are the bones of the Frenchmen, that fell by his blade;—
At sunset they saw the first flash of his vane,
By twilight, three thousand were still as its shade.
Then, Domitz, thy ramparts in crimson were dyed,
No longer a hold for the tyrant and slave;-
Then to Pommern he rush'd, like a bark on the tide,
The tide has swept on to renown and the grave.
Fly, slaves of Napoleon, for vengeance is come;
Now plunge in the earth, now escape on the wind;
With the heart of the vulture, now borrow its plume,
For Schill and his riders are thundering behind."
All gallant and gay they came in at the gate,
That gate that old Wallenstein proudly withstood,
Once frowning and crowned, like a King in his state,
Though now its dark fragments but shadow the flood.

* The Temples.

Then up flash'd the sabre, the lance was couch'd low,
And the trench and the street were a field and a grave;
For the sorrows of Prussia gave weight to the blow,
And the sabre was weak in the hand of the slave.

Oh Schill! Oh Schill! thou warrior of fame!
In the field, in the field, spur thy charger again;
Why bury in ramparts and fosses the flame

That should burn upon mountain, and sweep over plain!
Stralsund was his tomb; thou city of woe!
His banner no more on thy ramparts shall wave;
The bullet was sent, and the warrior lies low,
And cowards may trample the dust of the brave.
Then burst into triumph the Frenchman's base soul,
As they came round his body with scoff and with cry,
"Let his limbs toss to heaven on the gibbet and pole,
In the throat of the raven and dog let him lie.”
Thus they hurried him on, without trumpet or toll,
No anthem, no pray'r, echoed sad on the wind,
No peal of the cannon, no drums muffled roll,
Told the love and the sorrow that linger'd behind.
They cut off his head-but your power is undone;
In glory he sleeps, till the trump on his ear
In thunder shall summon him up to the throne;
And the tyrant and victim alike shall be there.
When the charge is begun, and the Prussian hussar
Comes down like a tempest with steed and with steel,
In the clash of the swords, he shall give thee a prayer,
And his watchward of vengeance be "Schill, brave Schill!"

e. r.

THE GOD AND THE BAYADERE.

AN INDIAN LEGEND.

(GOETHE.)

MAHADEOH, lord of Earth,
For the sixth time comes below,
Like to men of mortal birth,
Will he suffer joy and woe-
Earthly griefs he'll learn to bear,
Every lot of man will try,
Ere he chasten, ere he spare,
Mortals scan with mortal eye.

Through the city's wide mazes he marks ev'ry lot,
He lurks round the palace and visits the cot,
And he loves 'mid the shadows of evening to spy.

Where the suburbs tempt his way
Toward the river's cooling breeze,
With painted cheek and winning play,
A lost and lovely fair he sees-

“Greet thee, damsel,”—“ Thank thee, dear:
"Come, an hour of rapture prove,”.

"Who art thou, maid?"-" A Bayadere

"And this the joyous home of love"

She waves her bright arms to the glad cymbal's sound,
And lovely her form floats in light mazes round;
She bends and she proffers a wreath from the grove.

Flattering, to her door inclining,

On she leads from room to room-
"Beauteous Stranger, softly shining
Lamps shall quick my bow'r illume;
Art thou weary?-gently laving,
I will soothe thy aching feet ;
All thou will'st attends thy craving,-
Rest, or love, or frolic sweet."

She busily lightens his well-feigned woes;

The god brightly smiles, and his glad spirit glows,
Midst the ruins of error, a warm heart to meet.

He bids her act a bond-maid's part-
Without plaint does she obey;
All the maiden's early art
Gently yields to nature's sway.
So where tender blossoms glow,
Slowly-budding fruits appear;
Does the soul obedience know,
Love the gentle guest is near.

But sharper and sharper the maiden to prove,
The seer of souls shall call from above
Passion, and horror, and transport, and fear.

And her beauteous cheek he presses
And she feels love's melting woe➡
Nature all the maid confesses,
And her first of tear-drops flow.
At his feet she sinks declining,
Not for pleasure, not for gain!
Ah! her limbs their life resigning,
Can no more her form sustain.

Night her soft shades on their pillow is shedding,
The veil of her gloom round their pleasures is spreading,
And love bids the moments blissfully wane.

Slumbering late from fond embrace,
Soon she starts from troubled rest-
And sees that best-beloved face,
Lifeless laid upon her breast-