THE LOST PLEIAD.

"Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below."-BYRON.

AND is there glory from the heavens departed?Oh! void unmark'd!-thy sisters of the sky Still hold their place on high,

Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started, Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye!

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?
She wears her crown of old magnificence,
Though thou art exil'd thence-

No desert seems to part those urns of light,

'Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense.

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning—

The shepherd greets them on his mountains free ;

And from the silvery sea

To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning—

Unchang'd they rise, they have not mourn'd for thee.

Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place,

Ev'n as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray,

Swept by the wind away?

Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race,

And was there power to smite them with decay?

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven ?— Bow'd be our hearts to think on what we are,

When from its height afar

A world sinks thus-and yon majestic heaven

Shines not the less for that one vanish'd star!

THE CLIFFS OF DOVER.

The inviolate Island of the sage and free.

Rocks of my country! let the cloud

Your crested heights array,

And rise ye like a fortress proud,
Above the surge and spray!

My spirit greets you as ye stand,
Breasting the billow's foam :

Oh! thus for ever guard the land,

The sever'd Land of Home!

BYRON.

I have left rich blue skies behind,

Lighting up classic shrines,

And music in the southern wind,

And sunshine on the vines.

The breathings of the myrtle flowers,
Have floated o'er my way;

The pilgrim's voice, at vesper-hours,
Hath soothed me with its lay.

The Isles of Greece, the Hills of Spain, The purple Heavens of Rome,

Yes, all are glorious ;-yet again,

I bless thee, Land of Home!

For thine the Sabbath peace, my land! And thine the guarded hearth;

And thine the dead, the noble band,

That make thee holy earth.

Their voices meet me in thy breeze,
Their steps are on thy plains;

Their names, by old majestic trees,
Are whisper'd round thy fanes.

Their blood hath mingled with the tide Of thine exulting sea:

Oh! be it still a joy, a pride,

To live and die for thee!