They're gone to ply their ineffectual labour,-- To sow in guilt what they must reap in woe,-- Heaping upon themselves more deep damnation. Thus would I have it.--Little once I thought, When leagued with me in crime and punishment They fell,--condemned to an eternity Of exile from all joy and holiness-- And the first stains of sinfulness and sorrow Fell blight-like o'er their cherub 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_?