lineaments—­
  Myself the cause—­Albeit too proud for tears,
  Yet touch’d with their sad doom, I little thought
  I e’er should hate them thus.—­Yet thus I hate them,
  With all that bitter agony of soul
  Which is the punishment of fiends.  Alas! 
  It was my high ambition, to hold sway,
  Sole, paramount, unquestion’d, o’er a third
  Of Heaven’s resplendent legions:—­Power and glory
  Dwelt on them, like an elemental essence
  That could not be destroyed.—­I could not deem
  That aught could so extinguish the pure fire
  Of their sun-like beauty—­yet ’tis changed!—­
  I gain’d them to my wish, and they are grown
  Too hateful to be look’d on.—­Thus I’ve seen
  The frail fair dupe of amorous perfidy,
  The victim of a smile,—­by man beguiled—­
  Won to debasement, and then left in loathing:—­
  Alas!  I cannot leave my fatal conquest!—­
  Man! would I were the humblest mortal wretch,
  That crawls beneath yon shadowing temple’s tower,
  Under the sky of Canaan; so I might
  Lay down this weight of sceptred misery,
  And fly for ever from myself and these! 
  But Pride reproves the wish; and—­it is useless;
  The unatonable deeds of ages rise
  Like clouds between me and the throne of Grace. 
  I may not hope,—­or fear,—­still unsubdued,
  As when I ruled the anarchy of Heaven,
  I stand in Fate’s despite,—­firm and impassive
  To all that Chance, and Time, and Ruin bring. 
  —­In that disastrous day, when this vast world
  Shall, like a tempest-shaken edifice,
  Rock into giant fractures—­as the sound
  Of the Archangel’s trump, upon the deep,
  Bids fall the bonds of nature, to let forth
  Destruction’s formless fiend from world to world,
  Trampling the stars to darkness,—­Even then,
  Like that proud Roman exile, musing o’er
  The dust of fallen Carthage, I shall stand,
  Myself a solemn wreck, calm and unmoved
  Among the ruins of the works of God. 
  And my last look shall be a look of triumph
  O’er the fallen pillars of the deep and sky;
  The wreck of nature by my deeds prepared—­
  Deeds—­which o’erpay the power of Destiny.

Blackwood’s Magazine.

* * * * *

THE GATHERER.

  “A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles.”

  SHAKSPEARE.

ON A PICTURE OF HERO AND LEANDER.

By T. Hood.

    Why, Lover, why
  Such a water-rover? 
  Would she love thee more
  For coming half seas over?

    Why, Lady, why
  So in love with dipping? 
  Must a lad of Greece
  Come all over dripping?

    Why, Cupid, why
  Make the passage brighter? 
  Were not any boat
  Better than a lighter?

    Why, Maiden, why
  So intrusive standing? 
  Must thou be on the stair,
  When he’s on the landing?