His hands upraised, he cries, in raptured rage,
While passion swallows up the trace of age:

IX.

"Belshazzar! Son of the morning,

How art thou fall'n !

From thy bright path above, resplendently burning,
To the waters art thou roll'n!

Thy branches all blooming, thy garden perfuming,
Flames are consuming.

Babylon weeps o'er her portion of sorrow,
The ruin of Sodom, the curse of Gomorrah.

X.

"O king! I see the day of visitation,
Thy perish'd kingdom, and thy scattered nation!
I hear the mournful sound,

The lonely sound that lingers in these walls;
Stone after stone, on column column falls,
And desolation blackens all around.

The spider's web hangs on thy panoply;
The lizard creeps in thy goblet of amber;
The wild fox nests in thy bed-chamber,
Owls in thy canopy.

Where glitter'd thy palaces-vaunted thy walls,
From her sedge-cover'd plashes the bittern calls.

XI.

"The earth is at rest, and breaks forth into singing, A wild bird untrammell'd to liberty springing.

The cedars of Lebanon lift up their voice,

And, waving their hundred arms, o'er thee rejoice.
O! hills of Gilboa! now raise ye the song,

The harp, and the tabret, and young maiden throng.
See! Jordan flows brightly, with merry waves leaping,
And Carmel the smiling of thankfulness wears.
Fair daughter of sorrow! arise from thy weeping,
Come forth in thy beauty, O! Salem of tears!"

XII.

"Thou-king of terrors! lord of death and doom! Where shalt thou fly, from the curse of thy gloom? The bright lights of heaven are quench'd on thy path, Its angels anoint thee with vials of wrath!

Earth trembles beneath thee, heaven totters on high,
Where, wretched outcast! where wilt thou fly?
Hell yawns to receive thee, it stirs up the dead-
All griesly the spectre kings leap from their bed;
'Art thou weak as we?' they ask in fell mirth,

Who didst scatter, like dust, the throne of the earth?'

Go-King of Babel-this night is thy last,

Thy kingdom is weighed, found wanting, and past.”
The prophet fell bloodless, exhausted, and pale,
But terror yet echoed his soothsaying tale.

THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE.

From the German of Schiller.

(FROM THE SALE-ROOM.)

In ancient times, when Genoa had rebell'd,
And from its walls the Prince expell'd,
Fiesco, at the insurgents' head,

Who, as he will'd, their factious spirit led,
The commons thus address'd,

On their new state assembled to decide:-
"With your good leave, I will relate to you
What happen'd to the beasts, like you oppress'd?"-
"Speak, speak, Fiesco," cry'd the motley crew.

"Weary with anarchy and civil broils, And sadly living on each others spoils,

In desperate hope to be protected,

A Bull-Dog for their Sovereign they elected.
His reign was short. To blood and rapine bred,
He on their very bones and marrow fed;
Till one more bold and generous than the rest,
Deposed and slew the sanguinary beast.

The animals, collected then like you, To mould their government anew, Of the three forms presented to their choice, For which do you suppose they gave their voice?""O for the popular!" at once they cried. "You're in the right of it," replied

Fiesco; "a democracy they chose;

And on whate'er their rulers should propose,
Each was to have his vote.

"It chanced that Man

Against their infant state a war began.
Bull, Lion, Eagle, Tiger, Leopard, Bear,
For vigorous defence prepare ;

-

Goats, Pigeons, Sheep, and all the reptile race,
Resolve to sue for ignominious peace.
Cowards and Fools outvote the wise and brave,
And men their unprotected haunts surprise :

What would you in this crisis have decreed ?"

་

Why, that the best," they cry," should take the lead."

"Just what they did-an aristocracy
This government is call'd-But see
The consequence-The general good
Gave way to private interest, and all stood,
Not for his fellow-creatures, but himself:
Then first was known the sordid lust of pelf.
Foxes, Curs, Cats, purloin'd the common stock,
The Wolf devour'd at will the helpless flock.
Asses, ambassadors were sent,

A Stag to lead their armies went;

All was oppression, plunder, weakness, wrong;
Till, with one voice, the indignant throng,
Able to bear no more, resolved to have
A King, at once sagacious, generous, brave.
The Lion in a word." The rabble rout,
Rending the air with hideous shout,
Exclaim-"Huzza! the Lion is the thing!
Huzza! Huzza! Fiesco shall be King "`

DIRGE

OF A HIGHLAND CHIEF, EXECUTED AFTER THE REBELLION.

A literary friend of ours received these verses, with a letter of the following tenor:

"A very ingenious young friend of mine has just sent me the enclosed on reading Waverley. To you, the world gives that charming work; and if in any future edition you should like to insert the Dirge to the Highland Chief, you would do honour to "Your sincere Admirer."

The individual to whom this obliging letter was addressed, having no claim to the honour which is there done him, does not possess the means of publishing the verses in the popular novel alluded to. But, that the public may sustain no loss, and that the ingenious author of Waverley may be aware of the honour intended him, our correspondent has ventured to send the verses to our Register.

Oh, had'st thou slumber'd with the slain,
Had glory's death-bed been thy lot,
E'en though on red Culloden's plain,

We then had mourn'd thee not!

But darkly closed thy morn of fame,
That morn whose sunbeam rose so fair,
Revenge alone may breathe thy name,
The watch word of despair!
Yet oh! if gallant spirit's power
Has e'er ennobled death like thine,
Then glory mark'd thy parting hour,
Last of a mighty line!

O'er thy own bowers the sunshine falls,
But cannot cheer their lonely gloom,
Those beams, that gild thy native walls,
Are sleeping on thy tomb.

Spring on thy mountains laughs the while,
Thy green woods wave in vernal air,
But the loved scenes may vainly smile,
Not e'en thy dust is there!

On thy blue hills no bugle sound
Is mingling with the torrent's roar;
Unmark'd the red deer sport around,
Thou lead'st the chase no more.

Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still,
Those halls where swell'd the choral strain,
They hear the wild winds murmuring shrill,
And all is hush'd again.

Thy bard his pealing harp has broke,
His fire, his joy of song is past;
One lay to mourn thy fate he woke,
His saddest and his last :

No other theme to him was dear,

Than lofty deeds of thine;

Hush'd be the strain thou can'st not hear,
Last of a mighty line!

VOL. VIII. PART II.

r

THE

SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS;

OR,

THE QUEST OF SULTAUN SOLIMAUN.

From the Sale-Room.

I.

O, FOR a glance of that gay Muse's eye,
That lighten'd on Bandello's laughing tale,
And twinkled with a lustre shrewd and sly
When Giam Battista bade her vision hail!*
Yet fear not, ladies, the naïve detail

Given by the natives of that land canorous;
Italian license loves to leap the pale,

We Britons have the fear of shame before us,
And, if not wise in mirth, at least must be decorous.

II.

In the far eastern clime, no great while since,
Lived Sultaun Solimaun, a mighty prince,
Whose eyes, as oft as they perform'd their round,
Beheld all others' fix'd upon the ground;
Whose ears received the same unvaried phrase,
"Sultaun! thy vassal hears, and he obeys!"
All have their tastes-this may the fancy strike
Of such grave folks as pomp and grandeur like;
For me, I love the honest heart and warm
Of Monarch who can amble round his farm,
Or, when the toil of state no more annoys,
In chimney corner seek domestic joys-
I love a Prince will bid the bottle pass,
Exchanging with his subjects glance and glass;
In fitting time, can, gayest of the gay,

Keep up the jest and mingle in the lay

Such Monarchs best our free-born humours suit,

But Despots must be stately, stern, and mute.

The hint of the following tale is taken from La Camiscia Magica, a novel of Giam Battista Casti.