THE TOMB OF CHARLEMAGNE.

MID the torch-lit gloom of Aachen's isle

Stood Otho, Germany's imperial lord,
Regarding, with a melancholy smile,

A simple stone, where, fitly to record

A world of action by a single word,
Was graven "Carlo-Magno." Regal style

Was needed none: that name such thoughts restored

As sadden, yet make nobler men the while.

They rolled the marble back: with sudden gasp

A moment o'er the vault the Kaiser bent, Where still a mortal monarch seemed to reign. Crowned, on his throne, a sceptre in his grasp,

Perfect in each gigantic lineament,

Otho looked face to face on Charlemagne !

SIR AUBREY De Vere.

THE LANDRAIL.

YEAR, wakeful bird! I bid thine accents hail,
When, like the voice of May, thy startling note
Comes wandering up the moonlit, grassy vale,

Or hill of springing corn, or reedy moat ;
Dearer I love thee than the classic throat,
Melodious, of the poet's nightingale,
When her aerial numbers wildly float,
Like fairy music, o'er some haunted dale.

'Tis thine to wake a sweeter harmony,

Thrilling the viewless chords of memory :-
To come upon the heart in silent hours,
Touching each trembling pulse deliciously;

Recalling vows of youth, Hope's budding flowers,
And visions of pure love in amaranthine bowers !

SIR AUBREY DE VERE.

TO GENEVRA.

HY cheek is pale with thought, but not from

woe,

And yet so lovely, that if mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow ;—
And dazzle not thy deep blue eyes,—but oh !

While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,

Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow.
For, through thy long dark lashes, low depending,

The soul of melancholy gentleness

Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

LORD BYRON.

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LAKE LEMAN.

JOUSSEAU-Voltaire-our Gibbon-and De

Staël

Leman! these names are worthy of thy shore, Thy shore of names like these! wert thou no more Their memory thy remembrance would recall :

To them thy banks were lovely as to all,

But they have made them lovelier, for the lore

Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core
Of human hearts the ruin of a wall

Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by thee
How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel,

In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea,

The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal,
Which of the heirs of immortality

Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real!

LORD BYRON.

CHILLON

TERNAL Spirit of the chainless Mind!
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art—
For there thy habitation is the heart-
The heart which love of thee alone can bind;
And when thy sons to fetters are consigned,

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,
Their country conquers with their martyrdom,
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,

And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod,
Until his very steps have left a trace

Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface!
For they appeal from tyranny to God.

LORD BYRON.