he will,
Of that warrior unsubdued;
His soul, like an arrow from rocky ground,
Shall fiercely and proudly in air rebound.

But the hour of darkness girds him now
With a pall of deepest night,
Anguish sits throned on his moody brow,
And the curse of thy withering blight,
Despair, thou dreariest deathliest foe!
His senses hath steep'd in a torpid woe.

From the dazzling splendour of gloriest past
The warrior sickening turns.
To list to the sound of the wailing blast,
As the wan lamp dimly burns:
For the daring might of the lion-hearted
With Freedom's soul-thrilling notes hath parted.

O'er his harp-string droops his palsied hand,
And the fitful strain alone
Murmurs the notes of his native land--
Does echo repeat that moan
From the dungeon wall so grim and so drear?--
No!--an answering minstrel lingers there.

Up starts the listening king--a flash
Of memory's gifted lore
Bursts on his soul--a deed so rash,
What captive would e'er deplore?
Since bonds no longer unnerve the free,
And valour hath won fidelity.

Dark child of sorrow, sweet comfort take,
In thy lone heart's widowhood,
Some charmed measure may yet awake
Arresting affliction's flood,
And thy prison'd soul unfetter'd be
By the answering spirit of sympathy!

_Metropolitan._

* * * * *

ASMODEUS AT LARGE.

The design of this paper, in the _New Monthly Magazine_, is by no means
novel; but the fine, cutting satire--the pleasant, lively banter on our
vices and follies--which pervades every page of the article, is a set-off
to the political frenzy and the literary lumber of other Magazines of the
month. Each of them, it is true, has a readable paper, but one gem only
contributes to a Magazine in the proportion of one swallow to a summer.

Here are three pages of the _New Monthly_ Devil:

"A stranger, Sir, in the library," said my servant in opening the door.

"Indeed! what a short, lame gentleman?"

"No, Sir; middle-sized,--has very much the air of a lawyer or professional
man."

I entered the room, and instead of the dwarf demon Le Sage described, I
beheld a comely man seated at the table, with a high forehead, a sharp
face, and a pair of spectacles on his nose. He was employed in reading the
new novel of "The Usurer's Daughter."

"This cannot be the devil!" said I to myself; so I bowed, and asked the
gentleman his bu