158 CLASSICAL MODERN POETRY. . 



That all on earth like shadows fly ; 

 That nought abideth 'neath the sky. 



My hirth-day ! Where, when life was young, 

 Is now each promise which it gave ? 



Hope's early wreaths have long been hung, 

 Pale, faded garlands, o'er its grave, 



Where memory waters with her tears, 



Those relics of departed years. 



My birth-day ! Where the loved ones now, 

 On whom, in happier times, it dawn'd ? 



Each beaming eye, and sunny brow, 

 Low in the dark and dreamless land 



Now sleep, where I shall slumber soon, 



Like all beneath the sun and moon. 



My birth-day ! Once I loved to hear 



These words, by friendship echoed round ; 



But now, they fall upon mine ear, 



With thoughts too mournful and profound, 



Fraught with a sad and solemn spell, 



And startling as a wailing knell. 



MALCOLM. 



THE FATE OF TYRANNY. 



AN ODE. 



[This is a free Paraphrase on part of the 14th chapter of Isaiah, where the 

 Prophet, after he has foretold the destruction of Babylon, subjoins a Song 

 of Triumph, which he supposes the Israelites will sing when his prediction 

 is fulfilled.] 



Oppression dies ; the Tyrant falls : 

 The golden city bows her walls ! 



Jehovah breaks th' Avenger's rod. 

 The son of wrath, whose ruthless hand 

 Hurl'd Desolation o'er the land, 

 Has run his raging race, has closed the scene of blood ; 



Chiefs, arm'd around, behold their vanquish'd Lord, 

 Nor spread the guardian shield, nor lift the royal sword. 



