e left in that fair isle, their monarch to obey!

IX.

The new-made monarch sits in state in his loved ancestral bow'rs,
And he bids his minstrel strike the lyre, and he crowns his head
with flow'rs;
But still a cloud is on his brow--where is the promised smile?
And yet he sits a sceptred king--in his own dear native isle.

X.

Oh! Samos dear, my native land! I tread thy courts again--
But where are they, thy gallant sons? I gaze upon the slain--
"A dreary kingdom mine, I ween," the mournful monarch said,
"Where are my subjects good and true? I reign but o'er the dead!

XI.

"Ah! woe is me--I would that I had ne'er to Susa gone,
To ask that fatal boon of thee, Hystaspes' generous son.
Oh, deadly fight! oh, woeful sight! to greet a monarch's eyes!
All desolate--my native land, reft of her children, lies!"

XII.

Thus mourn'd the chief--and no relief his regal state could bring.
O'er such a drear unpeopled waste, oh! who would be a king?
And still, when desolate a land, and her sons all swept away,
"The waste domain of Syloson," 'tis call'd unto this day!

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Greek proverb.

[4] "The fiery youth, with desperate charge,
Made for a space an opening large."--MARMION.

LOVE AND DEATH.

O strong as the Eagle,
O mild as the Dove!
How like, and how unlike,
O Death and O Love!

Knitting Earth to the Heaven,
The Near to the Far--
With the step on the dust,
And the eyes on the star!

Interweaving, commingling,
_Both_ rays from God's light!
Now in sun, now in shadow,
Ye shift to the sight!

Ever changing the sceptres
Ye bear--as in play;
Now Love as Death rules us,
Now Death has Love's sway!

Why wails so the New-born?
Love gave it the breath.
The soul sees Love's brother--
Life enters on Death!

Why that smile the wan lips
Of the dead man above?
The soul sees Death changing
Its shape into Love.

So confused and so blending
Each twin with its brother,
The frown of one melts
In the smile of the other.

Love warms where Death withers,
Death blights where Love blooms;
Death sits by our cradles,
Love stands by our tombs!

Edward Lytton Bulwer.

Nov. 9, 1843.

THE BRIDGE OVER THE THUR.

FROM THE GERMAN.--GUSTAV SCHWAB.

Spurning the loud THUR'S headlong march,
Who hath stretcht the stony arch?
That the wayfarer bles