March came; and brought the self same wicked train,
With song and Jaughter, to the quiet bower;
The self-same echoing sounds arose again;

But Alarique, was not alore that hour-
No! the bright talisman, the heavenly Power,
Were there to save him from the fiends of Hell;
Yet, sooth to say, so fiercely did he shower
Reproach and curses on the demons fell,

That almost had he lost the guide he loved so well.

The while his burning ire was wreaked on them
In fearful menaces and accents wild,
A demon dire had almost seized the gem;

But he was checked by the awakening Childe,
That listened now to precepts meek and mild
Of her who taught him, that the surest way
To quell that sorcerer and his demons vilde,
Was but to hear unmoved all they could say,
Reckless of all their wiles and magical array.

*

'Tis night; but oh what nameless influence reigns;
What soothing balm is floating in the air?
'Tis night;-but are there not celestial strains?
Of power to cure all sadness but despair?
Aye, wandering witch-notes sweet beyond compare
Rising at intervals?-O yes! the lay

Of the gay woodlark from the forest fair,

And the loud blackbird hails the morning ray,
And thousand long-lost dreams the cheering call obey.

Aye, morning dawns; for on the mist-wreaths pale
Faint gleams of rosy light are shed; and lo
The waters faintly gleaming in the vale!
And now, O heaven! behold the orient glow
That o'er the eastern skies begins to throw
Enchanting influence! while the dewy lawn

In diamonds decked unfolds a glittering shew,
And onward moves the glories of the dawn,

And from the landscape fair the vapours are withdrawn.

But yet no foliage in proud canopy

Adorned the grove; but many a budding spray

Gave promise fair of future majesty

Whence odours met the zephyrs on their way ;

'Twas April, season of uncertain sway,

When fields of new-born verdure charm the sight,
And new-born flowers adorn the wanderer's way,
And the gay lark pursues his cheering flight-
O days of soothing hope, and promise and delight!

Yet

Yet though no foliage wontoned in the gale,
To him who long to Pain and Woe the prey,
And haunted long by fiends and spectres pale,
Weary had passed the night, weary the day,
The simplest object in the forest gray,

The simplest note that met his watchful ear,
Brought thousand sunny forms in bright array,
Such as of yore his pathway wont to cheer

When all the scenes were gay and all the skies were clear.

O hues of glory well remembered still;

How break ye on my long bewildered brain!
Effulgent rays that on the purple hill

Your purple tints oft pour'd at Evening's reign!
Forms of magnificence that rose amain,

How had ye all dissolved by chill decay!
How were ye rent and scattered by the train
Of unrelenting fiends, that night and day
Fed on my wasted heart, and wore my life away!

Days, too too little priz'd, of pure delight
That filed on rapid wing, Oh yet again
Shall the same lovely charms salute my sight?
Shall I the same enchanting walks regain?
Shall the same light revisit my parched brain
That shone by fits not duly prized of yore?
Is that the skylark's voice, the blackbird's strain ?
Are those the morning's mist-wreaths floating hoar?
And shall these peaceful shades
my wonted

In lays incondite, thus Childe Alarique
Again his long-lost ecstasy exprest;

peace restore?

The glow of gladness mantling on his cheek,
And new-born ardour rising in his breast,

Through the wild scenes his wonted way he prest,
And watched, entranced, the opening scenes of morn.
O boundless springs of rapture, purest, best,
To minds that Fancy's faëry beams adorn,

By no dire self-reproach or worldly passions torn!

Henceforth, where'er the Childe his path pursued,
Even when through crowded scenes he dared to go,
He dwelt in that surpassing solitude

That few have known, and few shall ever know--
He moved amid the scenes of vice and woe,

To him innocuous, trusting in the power

Of her whose arm had saved him from the blow
Of the fell fiend Despair at midnight hour,

When the loud torrent rage and darkest clouds did lour,

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Scarce is it mid the vernal woods more sweet
Than in the haunts of men, alone, to be;---
Where all is vice, woe, folly, and deceit―
The bosom to preserve serene, and free;
The varying scenes of various life to see,
Trusting in Heaven, that "all shall yet be well,"
Though now unsearchable is Heaven's decree ;
And feeling that "to doubt is to rebel,"
Onward to go rejoiced-till sounds the warning knell.”

And yet, the sooth to say, 'twas sweeter far
To tread the wild-woodmazes, and to view
The lake-waves glitter to the evening star,
And renovate the soul enchanting hue
That poesy o'er all the wild-woods threw,
And meet again that Muse beloved of yore,

While, "purer from the searching fire," he knew
The soul more vigorous and apt to soar

Through Virtue's flowery paths to heights unknown before.

T

RUINS OF ATHENS.

[From HAYGARTH'S GREECE.]

HRON'D on the brow of thine eternal rock,
Circled with mountains and expanding wide
Thine olive groves, thy vineyards, and thy fields
To meet the Ocean, Athens, thou art raised
Triumphant o'er the ravages of age.

What though deserted are thy ports and all
Thy pomp and thy magnificence are shrunk
Into a narrow circuit; though thy gates
Pour forth no more thy crested sons to war;
Though thy capacious theatres resound
No longer with the replicated shouts
Of multitudes; although Philosophy

Is silent 'midst thy porticos and groves;

Though Commerce heaves no more the pond'rous lead, Or, thund'ring with her thousand cars, imprints

Her footsteps on thy rocks, though near thy fanes,

Aud marble monuments the peasant's hut

Rears its low roof in bitter mockery

Of faded splendour, yet shalt thou survive,
Nor yield till time yields to eternity.

Ages have past, and Pow'rs, whose feeble light
Was lost amidst the lustre of thy fame,

Have reach'd the short meridian of their day,
And sunk to night, since thine uplifted arm
Wielded, in sight of crouching satellites,
The sceptre of thine empire; Time, that rais'd
The ample fabric of thy sov'reignty,
The mighty edifice at which the world
Gaz'd fearfully, has dash'd it to the dust,
And spread its fragments to the winds; and thou,
Veiling thy head, and folding o'er thy breast
The robe of mourning, near the ruin'd base
Of mould'ring columns nodding to their fall,
Sit'st bath'd in tears, and with unceasing sighs
Bewail'st the hour of thy sad destiny.

Yet thou wert once the envy of the world,
And nations bow'd before thee; thee they hail'd
First in the lists of fame, in arts and arms
Pre-eminent; upon thy serious brow
Deliberation sat, and from thy lips

Breath'd sounds of sweetest eloquence; thine arm
Harden'd by toil, displayed its sinewy strength,
Wielding the spear, and round the nodding helm
The iron hand of Conquest twin'd a wreath
Dripping with blood; the while thy hardy sons,
Some rob'd in peaceful mantles, some array'd
In all th' habiliments of war, the spear,

The shield, the helmet, crowded round thy throne,
And paid the homage of their fealty.

Genius of Greece! thou livest, though thy domes
Are fallen; here, in this thy lov'd abode,

Thine Athens, as I breathe the clear pure air

Which thou hast breath'd, climb the dark mountain's side
Which thou hast trod, or in the temple's porch

Pause on the sculptur'd beauties which thine eye
Has often view'd delighted, I confess
Thy nearer influence; I feel thy pow'r,
Exalting ev'ry wish to virtuous hope;
I hear thy solemn voice amidst the crash
Of fanes, hurl'd prostrate by barbarian hands,
Calling me forth with thee to tread the paths
Of wisdom, or to listen to thy harp
Hymning immortal strains. Genius of Greece!
Lead me, O lead me to thy deep retreats,
Where the loud savage yell that mocks thy woes
May never reach us! then with aspect mild
Unfold the treasures of thine ample page;
Instruct my reason; guide my fancy's flight,
And bear me back along the stream of time,
To those bright days when thou wert great and free.

The sultry rage is pass'd, and the broad orb
Of day descending in a vap'rous flood

Of golden light, leans on the horizon's verge.
Now whilst the rays of ev'ning slumb'ring rest
Upon the mountain's bosom-whilst her soft
And fragrant moisture floats along the sky,
Let us ascend yon craggy eminence,

And view the glorious scene which opens round
Far as the eye can wander. From the plain
Cecropia's citadel uprears it brow.

Rugged, and crown'd with circumambient walls
And glitt'ring temples; at its rocky base
The shatter'd wrecks of ancient day's repose,
Half-sunk in shadow, capitals and shafts,
Porches and monuments, the sculptur'd pomp
Of pediments, tow'rs, and triumphal arcs,
And marble fanes, and mould'ring theatres.
Imagination, kindling at the view,

Throws o'er the varied prospect the clear light
Of former ages; the still solitudes

Once more are peopled, and the sacred bands
Of poets and of sages seek again

Their shady groves and marble porticos.
Here, from the rocky Pnyx, the eloquence
Of Athens lighten'd over Greece, and wing'd
Her thunders; I behold her orators

Gath'ring their robes, and pointing to the shores
Whose billows lave the tombs of those who bled
For liberty. Here ling'ring on the banks
Of pure Ilissus, underneath the shade
Of aged planes, the philosophic few
Apart retire, to hang upon the lips

Of Wisdom's son. There, on the marble steps
Of the vast stadium's mound, range over range,
Assembled multitudes gaze silently,

In breathless expectation, on the throng
Of combatants striving for mastery

In fight, in wrestling, or in fervid course.
There soars Hymettus, flinging far around

His dark dark arms to the main, whilst at his feet
I trace a gleaming line of steeds and cars
And mailed warriors guiding with their spears
The serried phalanxes to Marathon.

Now westward turn your gaze, and see amidst
Yon olive woods, whose broad and verdant belt
Invests the plain, the consecrated groves
Of Academus, where Philosophy,

With finger press'd upon his wither'd lip,
Leads by the hand a stole-clad group to hear

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