our--let him reflect,
The gold he wins will brightly shine,
When he has perish'd with all his line.
Though man may rave and vainly boast,
We are but ashes when at the most.

BIRDS OF PASSAGE.
FROM THE SWEDISH.

So hot shines the sun upon Nile's yellow stream,
That the palm-trees can save us no more from his beam;
Now comes the desire for home, in full force,
And Northward our phalanx bends swiftly its course.

Now dim underneath us, through distance we view
The green grassy earth, and the ocean's deep blue;
There tempests and frequent disasters arise,
Whilst free and untroubled we wend through the skies.

Lo, high among mountains a meadow lies spread,
And there we alight, and get ready our bed;
There hatch we our eggs, and beneath the chill pole
We wait while the summer months over us roll.

No hunter, desirous to make us his prey,
Invades our lone valley by night or by day;
But green-mantled fairies their merry routs hold,
And fearless the pigmy {f:34} there hammers its gold.

But when pallid winter, again on the rocks
Shakes down in a shower the snow from his locks,
Then comes the desire for heat, in full force,
And Southward our phalanx bends swiftly its course.

To the verdant Savannah, and palm-shaded plain,
Where the Nile rolls his water, we hurry again;
There rest we till summer's sun, waxing too hot,
Makes us wish for our native, our hill-girded spot.

THE BROKEN HARP.

O thou, who, 'mid the forest trees,
With thy harmonious trembling strain,
Could'st change at once to soothing ease,
My love-sick bosom's cruel pain:
Thou droop'st in dreary silence now,
With shiver'd frame, and broken string,
While here, unhelp'd, beneath the bough
I sit, and feebly strive to sing.

The moon no more illumes the ground;
In night and vapour dies my lay;
For with thy sweet and melting sound
Fled, all at once, her silver ray:
O soon, O soon, shall this sad heart,
Which beats so low, and bleeds so free,
O'ercome by its fell load of smart,
Be broke, O ruin'd harp, like thee!

SCENES.

Observe ye not yon high cliff's brow,
Up which a wanderer clambers slow,
'T is by a hoary ruin crown'd,
Which rocks when shrill winds whistle round;
That is an ancient knightly hold,--
Alas! it droops, deserted, cold;
And sad and cheerless seems to gaze,
Back, back, to yon heroic days,
When youthful Kemps, {f:35} completely arm'd,
And lovely maid