First in the Orient raign'd the Assyrian kings,
To those the sacred Persian prince succeeds,
Then he by whom the world sore-wounded bleeds,
Earth's crowne to Greece with bloodie blade he brings;
Then Greece to Rome the raines of state resignes:
Thus from the mightie monarche of the Meeds,
To the west world successiuelie proceeds
That great and fatall period of all things;
Whilst wearied now with broyles and long alarmes,
Earth's majestie her diademe layes downe
Before the feet of the vnconquer'd crowne,

Blade of wheat! thou golden blade,
Who shall harvest thee?
For my lover lingers far —
Will not come to me.

Blade of wheat! thou golden blade,
Who shall bind thee round?
For my lover lingers far —
Where shall he be found?

M OTHER ! mother! mother mine!
Changeful is my heart,
Cleanse, O mother mine, away
All its fickle part.

O N my feet my slippers seem,
Made of heavy lead —
Mother, mother, mother mine!
I would hide my head.

Y OUNG and radiant oak-tree, why,
Young and verdant oak?

Beloved! how beautiful! beautiful! she
More beautiful yet at the altar will be:
" Then take me, dear youth!
O take me, and see
My beauty shall brighten in love and in truth.

" O TAKE me — O take me — thy bride shall become
The guardian — the mother — the charm of thy home;
Will rise with the morn,
Give the cattle their corn,
And the spindle my hands shall for ever adorn. "

Hail mighty Poet, mighty Painter too,
Since to thy strokes, his equal Lines we owe;
The sister Arts, are now a Mistery
And Painture here, has brought forth Poetry.
Th' inspiring Shade, seems life itself refin'd,
And all Heavens goodness coppy'd in her Mind;
So justly each performs his nicer Part,
As speaks their Skill, yet Beauties without Art:
The emmulative Ink, bright as the Paint,
This shows the Queen and that describes the Saint.
We prize in others still the lasting Soul,
But ye have Here, immortaliz'd the whole:

O tymes! O heauen, that still in motion art,
And by your course confounds us mortall wights!
O flying dayes! O ouerglyding nights,
Which passe more nimble than wind, or archer's dart!
Now I my selfe accuse, excuse your part,
For hee who fixed your farr-off shining lights
You motion gaue, and did to mee impart
A mind to marke, and to preuent your slights.
Life's web yee still weaue out, still, foole, I stay,
Malgre my just resolues, on mortall things.
Ah! as the bird surprised in subtile springs,
That beates with wing but cannot flye away,

Two lovers seek the wood together,
For shelter — when a mighty bough,
Riven by the fierce and stormy weather,
Falls — and they both are corpses now.

'T IS well! their fate is bliss — far sweeter
That both should die — than one remain
To mourn — a solitary creature —
Thro' wearying, wasting years in vain.

Ye mighty Nine, suspend your sacred Fire,
Strong Grief like Love can coldest Breasts inspire;
Nor shall I want Castilian Waters here,
For every line can Boast an ardent Tear.
But if the artless Sorrows of my Breast,
In numbers fail, my Sighs shall speak the rest;
With untun'd Lyre, and slacken'd Nerves I Sing,
Yet with a Pious hast, my humble Tribute bring
Of Grief immense, an equal Theme of Praise,
But oh! what Pen can worthy Trophies raise.
Great William now our Annals proudest Boast,
Whose dawning Glories joy'd the Belgick Coast;

BY WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER .

There 's a voice from every bird,
There 's a tone in every tree,
That recalls some burning word
I have uttered when with thee:
There 's an eye in every star,
There 's a look in every cloud,
That bears my thoughts alar
Where thou rulest Fashion's crowd.

Every sweet and breathing flow'r
That scents the twilight breeze,
Hath a ministry and pow'r
Over " Olden Memories: "
Every ripple of the stream
That goes singing on its way,
Hath a tale of boyhood's dream,

BY JAMES H. PERKINS .

Oh! merry, merry be the day,
 And bright the star of even—
For 't is our duty to be gay,
And tread in holy joy our way;
 Grief never came from Heaven,
My love—
 It never came from Heaven.

Then let us not, though woes betide,
 Complain of Fortune's spite, love;
As rock-encircled trees combine,
And nearer grow, and closer twine,
 So let our hearts unite,
My love—
 So let our hearts unite.

And though the circle here be small

O whence dost thou come—thou golden dove,
Thy wings are weary—thy plumes are wet—
Whence, wanderer! dost thou come?
“All over the seas I sought my love,
And I am hasting—hasting yet,
To our own—our mountain home.”