They have giv'n her to another-- They have sever'd ev'ry vow; They have giv'n her to another, And my heart is lonely now; They remember'd not our parting-- They remember'd not our tears, They have sever'd in one fatal hour The tenderness of years. Oh! was it weal to leave me? Thou couldst not so deceive me; Lang and sairly shall I grieve thee, Lost, lost Rosabel! They have giv'n thee to another-- Thou art now his gentle bride; Had I lov'd thee as a brother, I might see thee by his side; But _I know with gold they won thee_, And thy trusting heart beguil'd; Thy _mother_ too, did shun me, For she knew I lov'd her child. Oh! was it weal to leave me? Thou couldst not so deceive me; Lang and sairly shall I grieve thee, Lost, lost Rosabel! They have giv'n her to another-- She will love him, so they say; If her mem'ry do not chide her, Oh! perhaps, perhaps she may; But I know that she hath spoken What she never can forget; And tho' my poor heart be broken, It will love her, love her yet. Oh! was it weal to leave me? Thou couldst not so deceive me; Lang and sairly shall I grieve thee, Lost, lost Rosabel! From the Baltimore Visiter. THE COLISEUM. A PRIZE POEM. BY EDGAR A. POE. Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary Of lofty contemplation left to Time By buried centuries of pomp and power! At length, at length--after so many days Of weary pilgrimage, and burning thirst, (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) I kneel, an altered, and an humble man, Amid thy shadows, and so drink within My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory. Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! Silence and Desolation! and dim Night! Gaunt vestibules! and phantom-peopled aisles! I feel ye now: I feel ye in your strength! O spells more sure than e'er Judæan king Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee Ever drew down from out the quiet stars! Here, where a hero fell, a column falls; Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat: Here, where the dames of Rome their yellow hair Wav'd to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle: Here, where on ivory couch the Cæsar sate, On bed of moss lies gloating the foul adder: Here, where on golden throne the monarch loll'd, Glides spectre-like unto his marble home, Lit by the wan light of the horned moon, The swift and silent lizard of the stones. These crumbling walls; these tottering arcades; These mouldering plinths; these sad, and blacken'd shafts; These vague entablatures; this broken frieze; These shattered cornices; this wreck; this ruin; These stones, alas!--these gray stones--are they all-- All of the great and the colossal left By the corrosive hours to Fate and me?