And how she danced with pleasure to see my civic

crown; And took my sword, and hung it up, and brought me

forth my gown! Now, all those things are over-yes, all thy pretty

ways, Thy needlework, thy prattle, thy snatches of old

lays; And none will grieve when I go forth, or smile when

I return, Or watch beside the old man's bed, or weep upon his urn. The house that was the happiest within the Roman

walls, The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's

marble halls, Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have

eternal gloom; And, for the music of thy voice, the silence of the

tomb. The time is come. See he how he points his eager

hand this way! See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon

the prey! With all his wit, he little deems, that, spurned, be

trayed, bereft, Thy father hath in his despair one fearful refuge left. He little deems that in this hand I clutch what still

can save

Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion

of the slave;

Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and

blowFoul outrage which thou knowest not, which thou shalt

never know. Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me

one more kiss ; And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way

but this." With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in

the side, And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob

she died.



The famous Oriental philosopher Lockman, while slave, being presented by his master with a bitter melon, immediately ate it all. “How was it possible," said his master, “ for you to eat so nauseous a fruit ?” Lockman replied, “I have received so many favours from you, that it is no wonder I should once in my life eat a bitter melon from your hand." This generous answer of the slave struck the master to such a degree that he immediately gave him his liberty. With such sentiments should man receive his portion of sufferings at the hand of God.


A LITTLE way alone into the wood

The father gently moved toward the sound, Treading with quiet feet upon the grassy ground.

Anon advancing thus, the trees between
He saw beside her bower the songstress wild,
Not distant far, himself the while unseen.
Mooma it was, that happy maiden mild,
Who in the sunshine, like a careless child
Of nature, in her joy was carolling.
A heavier heart than his it had beguiled

So to have heard so fair a creature sing
The strains which she had learnt from all sweet birds

of spring

For these had been her teachers, these alone;
And she in many an emulous essay,
At length into a descant of her own
Had blended all their notes, a wild display
Of sounds in rich irregular array;
And now as blithe as bird in vernal bower,
Poured in full flow the unexpressive lay,

Rejoicing in her consciousness of power,
But in the inborn sense of harmony yet more.

In joy had she begun the ambitious song
* With rapid interchange of sink and swell;
And sometimes high the note was raised and long
Produced, with shake and effort sensible,
As if the voice exulted there to dwell:
But when she could no more that pitch sustain,
So thrillingly attuned the cadence fell,

That with the music of its dying strain
She moved herself to tears of pleasurable pain.


When now the father issued from the wood
Into that little glade in open sight,
Like one entranced beholding him, she stood;
Yet had she more of wonder than affright,
Yet less of wonder than of dread delight,
When thus the actual vision came in view;
For instantly the maiden read aright

Wherefore he came; his garb and beard she knew: All that her mother heard, had then indeed been true.

Nor was the Father filled with less surprise :
He too strange fancies well might entertain,
When this so fair a creature met his eyes.
He might have thought her not of mortal strain,
Rather as bards of yore were wont to feign
A nymph divine of Mondai's secret stream,
Or haply of Diana's woodland train :

For in her beauty Mooma such might seem,
Being less a child of earth, than like a poet's dream.

No art of barbarous ornament had scarred
And stained her virgin limbs, or 'filed her face;
Nor ever yet had evil passion marred
In her sweet countenance the natural grace
Of innocence and youth: nor was there trace
Of sorrow or of hardening want and care.
Strange was it in this wild and savage place,

Which seemed to be for beasts a fitting lair,
Thus to behold a maid so gentle and so fair.

Across her shoulders was a hammock flung,
By night it was the maiden's bed, by day
Her only garment. Round her as it hung
In short unequal folds of loose array,
The open meshes, when she moves, display
Her form. She stood with fixed and wondering

And trembling like a leaf upon the spray,
Even for excess of joy.


The world must go on its own way: for all we can say against it, radiant beauty, though it beams over the organization of a doll, will have its hour of empire --the most torpid heiress will easily get herself married; but the wife whose sweet nature can kindle worthy

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