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with the occurrence, which must be acknowledged by all to be perfectly incontrovertible, viz. that Jupiter, while engaged in carrying away the thief, did yet at the same time most unaccountably forget to carry away the coals also.

K.

BION. Idyll. IV.

Ταὶ Μοῖσαι τὸν Ερωτα τὸν ἄγριον οὐ φοβέονται,
̓Εκ θυμῶ δὲ φιλεῦντι, καὶ ἐκ ποδὸς αὐτῷ ἕπονται. κ. τ. λ.

Of Love, the cruel, the ruthless boy,

The Muses feel no fear,

But with souls of fondness and feet of joy,

They follow his light steps near.

And if ever a churl of unloving heart
Invadeth their hallow'd track,

They veil the page of their gentle art,
And flee from his presence back.

But the love-stricken bard, who with wild notes sweet
Outpoureth his soul in song,

Oh! ever with eager joy they greet,

And around him all lovingly throng.

Yes, believe it! to other of Gods or men
In vain would I tune my lute,

For my voice refuseth its office then,

And my stammering tongue is mute.

But whene'er to my Lysis I change the theme,
And to Venus' heart-conquering boy,-

Then forth from my lips, as though touch'd with flame,
Outfloweth the song in joy.

THE BURNING OF MOSCOW

OH! yet be warn'd!—Not here the cloudless sky

That gilds thy shores, Romantic Italy!

Oh! yet be warn'd!—

Away! can words controul

The deep designs of that unbending soul?

Fond dreamer, hence! When Heav'n hath lost its sway,
Shall man, weak man, pretend to point the way ?
No!-There was truth in that tremendous thought
Which in old time Colonos' minstrel taught * :
That coming woe can blunt the keenest mind,
And Heav'n first maddens ere it smites Mankind!
On! speed ye on, proud Eagles! to the plains
Where, rob'd in snows, eternal Winter reigns :
On! on! his sword must sweep yon northern shore,
And Russia yield one Royal Captive more!

And they are gone! With pennons streaming gay,
And lances glitt'ring in the beam of day,
Hope in each eye, and gladness in each heart,
Exulting Gaul hath seen her sons depart.

And now her halls are silent! hush'd and mute
The low soft murmur of the lover's lute.

The song hath ceas'd. Alas! no more again
The dear one's voice shall praise that Siren strain,
And the gay Masque, the Revel, and the Ball,
Illume no more the chill, deserted hall.

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'But they will come," fond Hope delusive said, "With Vict'ry thron'd upon each helmed head † !

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Yes, they will come, and to these arms be giv'n,

To clasp them safe.-Oh! speed their conquest, Heav'n!' And they did conquer,-if, when none oppose,

Το sweep, like locusts, o'er a land of foes,

* Soph. Antig., 1. 620.

+ "Upon them! Victory sits on our helms!"-Richard III.

To mark, where 'mid the Cotter's humble wall,
The Burgher's mansion, and the Noble's hall,
Stern patriot hands the blazing torch had thrown,—
If this be Conquest,-it was all their own!

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And now 'tis o'er!-Within those princely halls
Insatiate plunder strips the gorgeous walls,
And wanton Havoc tramples on, unknown,
The glowing canvas and the breathing stone!
Vain, Woman's cry! vain, Age's trembling pray'r!
The Despot's minions know not how to spare.
Meek Pity weeps o'er Mosqua's crimson'd flood,
And shudd'ring Mercy flies the scene of blood!

'Tis dead of night, and-Hark! what sudden shout
Through the deep stillness rings so wildly out?
Again!-Hah! see yon bursting flames aspire-
To arms! to arms! the city is on fire!

Then came there fear and trembling! Fast and far
Half-arm'd and breathless, rush'd the pale hussar.
But here the sword avail'd not: aw'd, amaz'd,
The warrior's eye on that dread ruin gaz'd;
And o'er his tow'ring form such ghastly hue,
Such lurid light, the crimson radiance threw,
That ev'n his comrade, as he saw, aghast

Shrank trembling back, and shudder'd as he pass'd,
And almost deem'd that, rais'd by demon spell,
Some evil spirit watch'd the work of hell!

Thus may we fancy, stood, in days of yore,
Gomorrha's sons by Almotana's* shore,

When fierce from Heav'n the living lightning came,
And Death triumphant fann'd the sulph'rous flame,
Till, where but now a trembling nation stood,
Flash'd one bright bolt,—and all was Solitude!
And He, (when loud as if Death's angel spoke,
That startling cry his fitful slumbers broke,)

The Oriental name for the Dead Sea.

How felt he then? Far through the gloom of night,
Above, around, flash'd forth unearthly light.

Pale fearful thousands watch'd the flames increase,
And one-oh! mockery!-one could write of PEACE*!
Day rose and waned o'er ruins-and then came
Another night, another, and the same!

At once from various parts burst forth on high
The raging flames, and crimson'd all the sky.
Then, Moscow, was thine hour! thick stifling smoke
Through thy hot streets in murky volumes broke;
Crash'd falling roofs, and higher still, and higher
Shot from thy tow'rs vast pyramids of fire!
While, ever and anon, a shrill wild cry
Told, but too well, intensest agony!

Perchance some hapless wretch, whose greedy eye
Saw but the spoil, nor mark'd destruction nigh;
Perchance some peasant, houseless doom'd to roam,
Ling'ring too long around his blazing home;
Or some pale mother, almost frantic grown
For her babe's life, regardless of her own,
Whose tott'ring limbs, by woe and toil opprest,
Sank pow'rless all;-that shriek hath told the rest!
Oh! 'twas no childish weakness in that hour,
When veteran breasts confess'd a softer pow'r;
And if their tears bedew'd that scene of woe,
Those tears were gems, for virtue bade them flow!
'Twas Morn: but, lost amid the glare of light,
Morn stole unnotic'd on the steps of Night!
And there was one who stood where on the town,
All scorch'd and bare, Salvation's† hill looks down.
And long he gaz'd; but 'twas not his to wear
The vacant glance of grief, the brow of care;

* Napoleon, during the first night of the conflagration, wrote with his own hand to the Emperor Alexander a letter containing proposals for Peace.

+ The hill whence the French first beheld Moscow.

Unmov'd and calm, as in the courtly hall,

He mark'd the Kremlin's rent and blacken'd wall,
And, crush'd alike by one tremendous fate,
The peasant's hut, the palace, desolate !
And still would ever-busy thought recall
Himself, the curst, the hateful cause of all!
But yet he reck'd not: o'er his meteor-course
Repentance came not-Conscience had no force;
He bow'd no suppliant at Religion's shrine,
He knew but one control-dark Superstition, thine!
And here that pow'r was felt! One moment quail'd

The eagle-glance, the lion-spirit fail'd;
Rose all at once before his earnest eye
The dim sad form of future Destiny ;

Seem'd ev'ry flame approaching Fate to show,
And each black Ruin prophesied of woe *!

Too soon it came!-Oh! veil'd in deepest night,
Hide, blushing Glory, hide that shameful flight!
What though, thick strown around him as he fled,
Choked his bleak path the dying and the dead?
What though dim eyes reproachful glances cast,
And faltʼring voices curst him as he pass'd?
Not yet enough Misfortune's cup was drain'd,
A deeper vengeance, Moscow, yet remain❜d.
Who knows not how upon that head accurst
The dark full storm of Retribution burst?
Who knows not how, with gen'rous zeal, from far
Indignant Britain pour'd the tide of War?
How his red Star behind St. Helen's shore
Shot headlong down, and set to rise no more!
And Peace restored, and Freedom born anew,
Sprang from thy plain, triumphant Waterloo!

K.

*Napoleon is said, while he watched the progress of the flames from the Hill of Salvation, to have frequently repeated to himself, "This bodes great misfortune."

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