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Cyrus.

Now by the stars !
I did not know that Susa's blades were famed!
Yet let it sleep awhile--the wanton wars
Thou wagest now would mock the blow it aimed,
Have I then found thee wand'ring in the grove
Harking to music by the love hill side?
Now I might safely ask thee what is Love ;
But Cyrus hath not come his friend to chide-
And if the dangerous triumph thou wouldst shun,
Preferring Love's luxurious couch of flowers,
I will encounter Persia's foe alone,
And bring thee wreaths of laurel for thy bowers,
Yet, if thou stayest, Satrap, let it be
To give the pleasure that thou seek'st to win,
Thou salt not offer to captivity
An action that can even seem a sin
Panthea shall be thine, if to thy heart
Hers will return the passion thine would give;
Then if she loves thee, stay—if not, departa
And be content in scenes of war to live

Araspes.

Al noble Cyrus--that you chide me not
Is most severe rebuke! You know my heart,
You know the very thoughts my soul that blot!
And intuition is your only art !
Away! The trumpet shall not call in vain !
My meditated crime I will atone !
And if Araspes wear a blush again,
It shall be with the laurels he has won !
Ah, Cyrus, let me live in shade till then,
For shame will be my soul's companion ! thou
Who art the most infallible of men,
I shall make thy heart the temple of my vow
That in the battle I will expiate
That which I now abhor as cowardice !
Still I may strive by valour to be great,
Though I have too much passion to be wise,

Cyrus.

Away then with the band that waits for thee !
In truth, Araspes, ill can Persia spare
An arm that ever points to victory,
And as a standard, leads the rushing war!

[Exeunt. Chorus of Susan Women from the Tents.

Let the gloomy Lutes be broken,

Strike the merry Lyres ! Victory hath sent a token

That our souls inspires.

Hail to Susa's noble foe

Now her foe no more ; Drown the dismal groans

of woe With the songs of war.

Come Inspiration ! voice of Heaven !
To music let thine aid be given,

And weave the tuneful Ode !
A Prophet's tongue hath spoke the name
Of Cyrus in his mystic dream

Inspired by Persia's God !

Arise ye chiefs ! anoint the shield !
Spread forth your banners o'er the field !
Upon the mountains raise your cries
And persecuted crowds will rise
Persia's revenging host to swell,
Well knowing the invincible !

To Babylon-to Babylon ! Victorious Vengeance takes her way, Prophetic fingers marked the prey,

Lead-lead our eager armies on.

We see the sluggard sentries sleep! “ Watch in the Watch-tower ! spread the Board ! Such is their drunken Prince's word,

Destined with blody tears to weep!

Upon thy marble pavement stone
Heaps of the bleeding slaughtered thrown,
Shall kill the perfume of the flowers
That grow around thy vampired towers.

Fly from the Pensile Paradise !
Yet vain the silken satrap Alies !
It's hundred fountains drive the flood
That drinks his Babylonian blood,

Lift

up your heads, ye foreign slaves To bondage brought from Judah’s land ; Redeeming mercy is at hand,

And ye shall share your father's graves !

Haste to your Temple ! raise your hymns Where

ye

address the Power divine, Prepare to offer at the shrine The broken bonds that bound your

limbs.

Yet on thy Fortunes, Babylon,
The Persian victor, like the Sun,
Comes to disperse all forms of fright
That have watched o'er thy long dark night.

He marches ! Where his steps are borne
Fair Liberty unfolds her dawn,
And Tyranny her midnight veil
Abandons to the dying gale !

Victorious in his noon of power,
On every side refreshing shower
The glad’ning rays of Mercy's light,
Blessing with Freedom every right.

The bright meridian past behold Sweet Peace attends the mellow eve, And happy in that blest reprive

How dance the young and smile the old !

BARNY BODKIN.

To the Editor of the Quarterly Oriental Magazine,

SIR,

The general spirit of your publication assures me that you will not exclude from it's pages, any offer at justification whether from, or on the part of those, who have there been animadvert

ed on.

In the leading article of your 14th No. the deficiences that exist in the Lexicography of the three Languages, Arabic, Persian, and Engiish, are remarked on not only with great ability, but in a manner that displays much research and erudition. It is to be regretted however that the ingenious author of those observations, overlooking or but touching lightly on, the almost unsurmountable difficulties that must have presented themselves to Mr. Richardson in his compilation of an Arabic and Persian Dictionary, has lavished on him alone the severity of his criticism. He does indeed offer some palliation for that writer's imperfections, but it wants the energy that he shows in detecting them, if not its cordiality. To follow him thro' the niceties of his objections perhaps exceeds my ability, and is certainly beyond my intention ; particularly as I am sensible that they have not been raised either wantonly or vaguely, but only in general where called for. That Mr. Richardson however “ appears throughout his works to be constantly afraid that his readers shall learn too much"-" that his Arabic Grammar is a servile translation of Erpenius”_"and that it deserves not the name of a Grammar—are assertions somewhat unqualified and hasty. In the preface to the 2d volume of his Arabic and Persian Dictionary, we find the testimony of Major Davy, that the excellence of that work far exceeded the expectations that he had entertained, and that its arrangements were in his opinion (surely a respectable one ?) most clear and admirable, and the author of the “ Observations” has not denied but that it is copious. The University of Oxford impressed with the stupendous nature of Mr. Richardson's undertaking, alive to the difficulties attending it, and in acknowledgement of those abilities and that indefatigable application that alone could have enabled bim to overcome them, conferred on him that honor so seldom and so jealously bestowed “Degree by Diploma." But if these testimonies are not unexceptionable, all severity of criticism must be disarmed by the author's own ingenuous expression of regret that he wanted some of those qualifications that his task required: And when we read his melancholy declaration that no reward in the power of any man or body of men to bestow, could induce him to tread over again the same unpleasant ground;" When we hear him speak of the fatigue consequent on "stretches of study of sixteen hours duration"--of “unremitting labour and protracted anxiety," we in congratulating ourselves that the work has been completed even as it has been, can indulge but little hope or expec

tation that another so qualified will ever enter upon it again, much less perform it better.

For Mr. Richardson's Grammar, if it is a translation of that by Erpenius, it certainly is not either a servile or a mere one: For you will in vain seek for that copiousness of example in the latter work that enriches the former. That the plan and construc. tion is Erpenius's, will not be denied; but if we except De Sacy, who amongst those who have followed that Grammarian, have not copied from him his method and arrangement ?

In a work entitled " De Fatis Linguarum Orientaliuin,” from the pen of one of that nation which (as your contributor observes), is so justly famed for it's Orientalists, we find the following eulogium on Mr. Richardson, coupled with similar honorable mention of his cotemporary Sir W. Jones—and with which I shall conclude : “ Viris bis, duos alios quos Anglia non ita pridem protulit, “ Orientalium Linguarum intelligentia egregie excultos, coronidis “ instar adjungimus. Jones nempe, et Richardson, qui præstan- tissimis commentationibus suis non in patria tantum sua, sed et “ apud exteros, horum studiorum amantiores, insignem sibi famam “ compararunt.

I have the honor to remain,

Sir,
Your admirer and well-wisher,

PHILO-RICHARDSON. Miadras, May 27, 1828.

SOLITUDE.
One autumn eve I laid me down alone

Beside the trembling current of a stream
That rolled its waters voice-like gently on,

Lulled by dark foliage, while a twinkling gleam,
Shot through the gloom from some bright star above,

Like beauty's eye half curtained in ; and now
Afar the flood murmured, moonlit and slow

Like the hushed slumberer of a mother's love;
I heard a tread, so light and soft it's fall

It seemed the pressure of some plumaged breast,
Pillowed on yielding moss, then straight I viewed

A child, wan, wild and lonely, yet with all
Lovely, as is the dust of Babes at rest,
And time had written on his cold brow, Solitude.

R. C. M.

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