Tremble, ye proud, whose grandeur mocks the woe,
Which props the column of unnatural state,

You the plainings faint and low,

From misery's tortured soul that flow,

Shall usher to your fate.

Tremble, ye conquerors, at whose fell command

The war-fiend riots o'er a peaceful land.

You desolation's gory throng
Shall bear from Victory along

To that mysterious strand.

POEMS FROM ST. IRVYNE, OR THE ROSICRUCIAN.1

NUMBER 1.

'TWAS dead of the night, when I sat in my dwelling; One glimmering lamp was expiring and low; Around, the dark tide of the tempest was swelling, Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling,They bodingly presag'd destruction and woe.

II.

"Twas then that I started!-the wild storm was howling, Nought was seen, save the lightning, which dane'd in the sky;

Above me, the crash of the thunder was rolling,
And low, chilling murmurs, the blast wafted by.

III.

My heart sank within me-unheeded the war

Of the battling clouds, on the mountain-tops, broke ;Unheeded the thunder-peal crash'd in mine earThis heart, hard as iron, is stranger to fear;

But conscience in low, noiseless whispering spoke.

IV.

'Twas then that her form on the whirlwind upholding, The ghost of the murder'd Victoria strode;

In her right hand, a shadowy shroud she was holding,

I wildly then call'd on the tempest to bear me

GHOSTS of the dead! have I not heard your yelling
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the blast,
When o'er the dark ether the tempest is swelling,
And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal past?

II.

For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura,
Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath;
Oft have I brav'd the chill night-tempest's fury,
Whilst around me, I thought, echo'd murmurs of death.

III.

And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling,
O father! thy voice seems to strike on mine ear;
In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is rolling,
It breaks on the pause of the elements' jar.

IV.

On the wing of the whirlwind which roars o'er the mountain Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who is dead;

On the mist of the tempest which hangs o'er the fountain, Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head.

NUMBER 3.-BALLAD.

I.

THE death-bell beats !—
The mountain repeats

The echoing sound of the knell ;
And the dark monk now

Wraps the cowl round his brow,
As he sits in his lonely cell.

II.

And the cold hand of death
Chills his shuddering breath,
As he lists to the fearful lay
Which the ghosts of the sky,
As they sweep wildly by,
Sing to departed day.

And they sing of the hour
When the stern fates had power
To resolve Rosa's form to its clay.

III.

But that hour is past;

And that hour was the last

Of peace to the dark monk's brain.

Bitter tears, from his eyes, gush'd silent and fast; And he strove to suppress them in vain.

IV.

Then his fair cross of gold he dash'd on the floor, When the death-knell struck on his ear.

Delight is in store

For her evermore;

But for me is fate, horror, and fear.

V.

Then his eyes wildly roll'd,
When the death-bell toll'd,

And he rag'd in terrific woe.
And he stamp'd on the ground,—

But when ceas'd the sound,

Tears again began to flow.

VI.

And the ice of despair

Chill'd the wild throb of care,

And he sate in mute agony still;

Till the night-stars shone through the cloudless air, And the pale moon-beam slept on the hill.

VII.

Then he knelt in his cell:

And the horrors of hell

Were delights to his agoniz'd pain,

And he pray'd to God to dissolve the spell, Which else must for ever remain.

VIII.

And in fervent pray'r he knelt on the ground, Till the abbey bell struck One:

His feverish blood ran chill at the sound:

A voice hollow and horrible murmur'd around"The term of thy penance is done!"

Grew dark the night;

IX.

The moon-beam bright

Wax'd faint on the mountain high

And, from the black hill,

Went a voice cold and still,

"Monk! thou art free to die."

X.

Then he rose on his feet,

And his heart loud did beat,

And his limbs they were palsied with dread; Whilst the grave's clammy dew

O'er his pale forehead grew;

And he shudder'd to sleep with the dead.

XI.

And the wild midnight storm

Rav'd around his tall form,

As he sought the chapel's gloom :
And the sunk grass did sigh

To the wind, bleak and high,

As he search'd for the new-made tomb.

XII.

And forms, dark and high,

Seem'd around him to fly,

And mingle their yells with the blast: