I see each shade, all silvery white,

I hear each spirit's melting sigh;
I turn to clasp those forms of light,
And the pale morning chills my eye.

6.

But soon the last dim morn shall rise,
The lamp of life burns feebly now,-
When stranger-hands shall close my eyes,
And smooth my cold and dewy brow.
Unknown I lived,-so let me die;
Nor stone, nor monumental cross,

Tell where his nameless ashes lie,

Who sigh'd for gold, and found it dross.

London Magazine.

THE LAST MAN.

WRITTEN BY T. CAMPBELL.

OUR observations on the Last Man will be found in our preliminary view of Modern Literature.

ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,

The Sun himself must die,

Before this mortal shall assume

Its immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to sweep

Adown the gulf of Time!

I saw the last of human mould,

That shall Creation's death behold

As Adam saw her prime!

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,

The Earth with age was wan, The skeletons of nations were

Around that lonely man!

Some had expir'd in fight—the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;

In plague and famine some!

Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb!

Yet prophet like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm pass'd by.

Saying we are twins in death, proud Sun,
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
"Tis mercy bids thee go;

For thou ten thousand, thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will;-

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim, discrowned king of day:

For all those trophied arts

And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Heal'd not a passion or a pang

Entail'd on human hearts.

K

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men,

Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again.

Its piteous pageants bring not back
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd,
Or moan in battle by the sword,

Like grass beneath the scythe.

E'en I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.

The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,—
The majesty of darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!

This spirit shall return to Him

That gave its heavenly spark;

Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By him recall'd to breath,

Who captive led captivity,

Who robb'd the grave of Victory,

And took the sting from Death

Go sun, while mercy holds me up

On Nature's awful waste

To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall taste-
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,
On Earth's sepulchral clod,

The dark'ning universe defy
To quench his Immortality,

Or shake his trust in God!

THE DAUGHTER OF MEATH.

WHETHER the story of Melachlin's daughter be true or not, it is related in the History of Ireland almost literally as the poet describes it here; and it is not a little remarkable that stories founded in history, even when they are originally mere fictions of the itinerant bard, or historical Senachee, are still more interesting to all readers, than those which the poet himself immediately invents. The fact is, that we are always more willing to sympathize with real than with imaginary characters, and all historical characters, descriptions, and events, appear real to us, whether they be so or not.-ED.

TURGESIUS, the chief of a turbulent band,

Came over from Norway and conquer'd the land;
Rebellion hath smooth'd the invader's career,
The natives shrank from him, in hate, or in fear;
While Erin's proud spirit seemed slumbering in peace,
In secret it panted for death-or release.

The tumult of battle was hush'd for a while,-
Turgesius was monarch of Erin's fair isle;

The sword of the conqueror slept in its sheath, - His triumphs were honour'd with trophy and wreath; The princes of Erin despair'd of relief,

And knelt to the lawless Norwegian Chief.

His heart knew the charm of a woman's sweet smile,
But ne'er, till he came to this beautiful Isle,

Did he know with what mild, yet resistless controul,
That sweet smile can conquer a conqueror's soul—
And oh!'mid the sweet smiles most sure to enthrall,
He soon met one-whom he thought sweetest of all.
The brave prince of Meath had a daughter as fair
As the pearls from Loch Neagh, which encircled her hair;
The Tyrant beheld her, and cried, "She shall come
To reign as the Queen of my gay mountain home;
Ere sunset to-morrow hath crimson'd the sea
Melachlin, send forth thy young daughter to me!"
Awhile paused the prince-too indignant to speak,
There burn'd a reply in his glance-on his cheek;
But quickly that hurried expression was gone,
And calm was his manner, and mild was his tone,
He answer'd-" Ere sunset has crimson'd the sea,
To-morrow-I'll send my young daughter to thee!
"At sunset to-morrow your palace forsake,
With twenty young chiefs seek the Isle on yon lake;
And there, in its coolest and pleasantest shades,
My child shall await you with twenty fair maids;
Yes-bright as my armour the damsels shall be,
Whom I send with my daughter, Turgesius, to thee."
Turgesius return'd to his palace;-to him

The sports of that evening seem'd languid and dim;