The hall is vast, and cold, and drear;
The board with faded flowers is spread:
Shadows of beauty flit around,
But beauty from each bloom has fled;

And music echoes from the walls,
But music with a dirge-like sound;
And pale and silent are the guests,
And every eye is on the ground.

Here, take this cup, tho' dark it seem,
And drink to human hopes and fears;
'Tis from their native element
The cup is filled--it is of tears.

What! turnest thou with averted brow?
Thou scornest this poor feast of mine;
And askest for a purple robe,
Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine.

In vain, the veil has left thine eyes,
Or such these would have seemed to thee;
Before thee is the Feast of Life,
But life in its reality!

We should not, however, pass over in silence a poem, of the antique
school, entitled the Holy Vengeance for the Martyrdom of George
Wishart, the merits of which are of a high order. Indeed, this piece,
and the admirable composition of the History of Sir Thomas More and