Heaven's image here the Persian might adore,

Wont on some mountain's brow his vows to pour, Who deems his God no narrow fanes can own, The world his temple, highest Heaven his throne.

Here once in marble frown'd th' avenging Jove, Here stood the synod of the realms above; Bright Heroes there, enshrin'd amongst the Gods; Last the dread powers that rul'd the dark abodes. Vain phantoms!-chas'd by truth's all-piercing ray, Ye fled, like spectres from the face of day:

Now through the vaulted roof Hosannas rise,

And lift the soul in rapture to the skies.

Thus shall the world, as holy bards foretel, To one true God the general chorus swell: And when at last yon orbs their course have run, When earth shall melt, and darkness shroud the sun,

Its crystal gates Heaven's temple shall display,
And light's sole fountain scatter endless day.
Oh! lead my steps, firm Hope, that ne'er canst tire,
Ev'n to that temple's gate, and there expire,

As through the desert led the Prophet guide,

Just look'd, just saw the promis'd land, and died : There white-rob'd Saints before the throne shall fall, One heavenly Dome, one vast Pantheon all.

FRANCIS HAWKINS,

ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE.

NIOBE:

A PRIZE POEM,

RECITED

IN THE THEATRE, OXFORD,

IN THE YEAR MDCCCXIV.

1

NIO BE.

STILL o'er yon rock-built towers the heavenly foe
Hovers in gloom, and bends the fatal bow;
Still, as the arrows urge their vengeful speed,
Thy princes, Thebes, thy sons, Amphion, bleed.
Low lie the honours of that boasted race,

Youth's manly bloom and beauty's virgin grace,
And the last victim now, in wild despair,

Flies to her mother's breast-to perish there.
Closely she clings, her throbbing heart beats high,
And fear looks eager from her youthful eye.

Undaunted Art! and could thy magic power

Recall the terrors of that dreadful hour,