Yet e'en before his throne of pride,
My spirit scorned to bend or sue,-
Amazed, he saw his power defied,

And raged-but trembled too!

The wrath he could not have subdued
He did not dare to brave,
But left me to my solitude,
His captive, not his slave.

Since then, , my life's unvaried tale
Breathes but one weary tone of woe,
That bids despair my heart assail,
And burning tears to flow.

But soon these weeping eyes shall close, And soon this weary heart shall rest, And earth, that witnesses my woes, Shall hide them in her breast.

Tyrant, approach! one boon I crave-
(E'en tyrants war not with the dead)
To soothe the life thou would'st not save,
And dry the tears I've shed.

K

Deep in yon fatal orange grove,
Beneath a tamarind's shade,

My father sleeps-if tears can move,
There too let me be laid.

I ask not poisoned cup or steel
To haste the doom I crave-
I need but feel as now I feel,
To quickly share his grave.

And thou, dear Youth! where'er thou art,
Some tears perchance wilt shed-
Tears gushing from a pitying heart
T'embalm my narrow bed.

Though o'er the lone spot where I lie,

Be heard no wailings loud;

'Twere joy to think one heart would sigh, And that were thine, M'Cleod !

But wheresoe'er my tomb is piled,
My soul at least is free;

Shade of my sire, receive thy child!

Thy daughter comes to thee!

CLASSICAL SONNET,

WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM.

MOTTO COMPOSED FOR THE OCCASION.

What shall I write? I've hit upon
Dulness-thy very name is Sonnet!

it!

You bid me write-I will-but then
I want a subject for my pen.

Ode, epic, elegy, or rebus,

'Tis all the same to me, sweet Phoebus!

Alas! my muse is on the rack,

And cruel Phoebus turns his back.

My ink is good, my paper fair,
My pens are pruned with toil and care-
But oh! in pen and ink's despite,
Without a theme I cannot write;

And when Apollo's in the dumps,
Pens may be mended to the stumps,

Before a single line he'll send
A hapless follower to befriend.
But though one god is in the pet,
All have not left Olympus yet.
He will not deign to help me through,
So let us see what they can do?
And lest my muse should lose her way
(Unguided by the God of Day,)

I'll chain her down with fourteen fetters,
And scrawl a sonnet-like my betters.

ENTER SONNET.

One line from Cupid I will claim,
One from the laughter-loving dame,
(For Cupid o'er thy cradle flew,
And Venus smiled, fair girl, on you,)
The Graces three, and Muses nine,
Must send me each a single line.
And now behold my sonnet made
Without Apollo's needless aid.
For if my idle rhymes you count,
You'll find-fourteen is just the amount;
And I will thank each drowsy god
Whose help has made my readers nod,
From one dear nymph if they beguile
The seal and sanction of a smile.

THESE are her eyes-but where's the lambent gleam That melts the iciest bosom in its beam?

These are her ruby lips-but where's the smile That might e'en misery's self to mirth beguile? Her dimpled cheek is here-but where's the blush That wakes to richer tints its rosy flush?

Here every feature to the life we find

What does the picture want?—it wants the mind !*
The outward form is perfect-but the soul,
That casts it crowning glories o'er the whole,

* Say what does Chloe want?-she wants a soul.

POPE.