'Tis done—but yesterday a King!
And armed with Kings to strive—
And now thou art a nameless thing:
So abject—yet alive!
Is this the man of thousand throne

Titan! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despi
What was thy pity’s recompense?

The harp the monarch minstrel swep
The King of men, the loved of Hea
Which Music hallow’d while she we
O’er tones her heart of hearts had
Redoubled be her tears, its chords

When Man, expell’d from Eden’s bo
A moment linger’d near the gate,
Each scene recall’d the vanish’d h
And bade him curse his future fate
But, wandering on through distant

And wilt thou weep when I am low?
Sweet lady! speak those words agai
Yet if they grieve thee, say not s
I would not give that bosom pain.
My heart is sad, my hopes are gone

When Newton saw an apple fall, he
In that slight startle from his co
'Tis said (for I 'll not answer a
For any sage’s creed or calculatio
A mode of proving that the earth t

'Tis done——and shivering in the ga
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And whistling o’er the bending mas
Loud sings on high the fresh’ning
And I must from this land be gone

Oh, Mariamne! now for thee
The heart of which thou bled’st is
Revenge is lost in agony,
And wild remorse to rage succeedin
Oh, Mariamne! where art thou?

Who killed John Keats?
“I,” says the Quarterly,
So savage and Tartarly;
“Twas one of my feats.”
Who shot the arrow?

Her eye (I’m very fond of handsom
Was large and dark, suppressing ha
Until she spoke, then through its
Flash’d an expression more of prid
And love than either; and there wo