e the chased roe thy hosts disordered fly,
And those who turn to strive but turn to die.
Thy young men tremble and thy maids grow pale,
And swell with frantic grief thy funeral wail;
They kneel for mercy, but they sue in vain;
Their beauty withers on the gore-dyed plain;
With fathers, lovers, brothers, meet their doom,
And 'mid thy blackened ruins find a tomb.
Of fear unconscious, in soft slumbers blest,
The infant dies upon its mother's breast,
Unpitied e'en by her--the hand that gave
The blow has sent the parent to the grave.

Queen of the East! all desolate and lone,
No more shall nations bow before thy throne.
Low in the dust thy boasted beauty lies;
Loud through thy princely domes the bittern cries,
And the night wind in mournful cadence sighs.
The step of man and childhood's joyous voice
Are heard no more, and never shall rejoice
Thy lonely echoes; savage beasts shall come
And find among thy palaces a home.
The dragon there shall rear her scaly brood,
And satyrs dance where once thy temples stood;
The lion, roaming on his angry way,
Shall on thy sacred altars rend his prey;
The distant _isles_ at midnight gloom shall hear
Their frightful clamours, and, in secret, fear.

No more their snowy flocks shall shepherds lead
By Babel's silver stream and fertile mead;
Or peasant girls at summer's eve repair,
To wreathe with wilding flowers their flowing hair;
Or pour their plaintive ditties to the wave,
That rolls its sullen murmurs o'er thy grave.
The wandering Arab there no rest shall find,
But, starting, listen to the hollow wind
That howls, prophetic, through thy ruined halls,
And flee in haste from thy accursed walls.
Oh Babylon, with wrath encompassed round,
For thee no hope, no mercy, shall be found:
Thy doom is sealed--e'en to thy ruin clings
The awful sentence of the King of kings!

TO THE MEMORY OF
MRS. EWING.

WRITTEN AFTER PERUSING THE INTERESTING MEMOIR COMPOSED
BY HER HUSBAND, THE REV. GREVILLE EWING.

Daughter of Scotland! may a stranger twine
One cypress wreath around thy honoured urn?--
Yet, when I meditate on faith like thine,
I feel my breast with sacred ardour burn;
Deep admiration checks the starting tear,--
Such drops would stain a Ewing's holy bier!

Death was to thee a messenger of love;
He met thee in the path thy Saviour trod,
Bearing this blessed mandate from above,
"Come, happy spirit--come away to God!
Thy works of piety on earth are o'er,--
Plume th