The Danube’s wide-flowing water lave
    The captive’s dungeon cell,
  And the voice of its hoarse and sullen wave
    Breaks forth in a louder swell,
  And the night-breeze sighs in a deeper gust,
  For the flower of chivalry droops in dust!

  A yoke is hung over the victor’s neck,
    And fetters enthral the strong,
  And manhood’s pride like a fearful wreck,
   Lies the breakers of care among;
  And the gleams of hope, overshadow’d, seem
  The phantoms of some distemper’d dream.

  But the heart—­the heart is unconquer’d still—­
    A host in its solitude! 
  Quenchless the spirit, though fetter’d the will,
    Of that warrior unsubdued;
  His soul, like an arrow from rocky ground,
  Shall fiercely and proudly in air rebound.

  But the hour of darkness girds him now
    With a pall of deepest night,
  Anguish sits throned on his moody brow,
    And the curse of thy withering blight,
  Despair, thou dreariest deathliest foe! 
  His senses hath steep’d in a torpid woe.

  From the dazzling splendour of gloriest past
    The warrior sickening turns. 
  To list to the sound of the wailing blast,
    As the wan lamp dimly burns: 
  For the daring might of the lion-hearted
  With Freedom’s soul-thrilling notes hath parted.

  O’er his harp-string droops his palsied hand,
    And the fitful strain alone
  Murmurs the notes of his native land—­
    Does echo repeat that moan
  From the dungeon wall so grim and so drear?—­
  No!—­an answering minstrel lingers there.

  Up starts the listening king—­a flash
    Of memory’s gifted lore
  Bursts on his soul—­a deed so rash,
    What captive would e’er deplore? 
  Since bonds no longer unnerve the free,
  And valour hath won fidelity.

  Dark child of sorrow, sweet comfort take,
    In thy lone heart’s widowhood,
  Some charmed measure may yet awake
    Arresting affliction’s flood,
  And thy prison’d soul unfetter’d be
  By the answering spirit of sympathy!

Metropolitan.

* * * * *

ASMODEUS AT LARGE.

The design of this paper, in the New Monthly Magazine, is by no means novel; but the fine, cutting satire—­the pleasant, lively banter on our vices and follies—­which pervades every page of the article, is a set-off to the political frenzy and the literary lumber of other Magazines of the month.  Each of them, it is true, has a readable paper, but one gem only contributes to a Magazine in the proportion of one swallow to a summer.

Here are three pages of the New Monthly Devil: 

“A stranger, Sir, in the library,” said my servant in opening the door.

“Indeed! what a short, lame gentleman?”

“No, Sir; middle-sized,—­has very much the air of a lawyer or professional man.”