The Suicide.

SAE left her infant on the Sunday morn―
A creature doom'd to sin-in sorrow born,
She came not home to share our humble meal,
Her father thinking what his child might feel
From his hard sentence. Still she came not home.
The night grew dark, and yet she was not come;
The east wind roar'd, the sea return'd the sound;
And the rain fell, as if the world were drown'd;
There were no lights without; and my good-man,
To kindness frighten'd-with a groan began
To talk of Ruth, and pray—and then he took
The Bible down, and read the holy book:
For he had learning; and when that was done,
He sat in silence.- Whither could we run?"
He said and then rush'd frighten'd from the door,
For we could bear our own conceits no more.
We call'd on neighbours-there she had not been;
We met some wanderers-our's they had not seen;
We hurried o'er the beach, both north and south,
Then join'd and hurried to our haven's mouth,
Where rush'd the falling waters wildly out;
I scarcely heard the good-man's fearful shout,
Who saw a something on the billow's side:
And "Heaven have mercy on our sins!" he cried,
It is my child!"—and, to the present hour,
So he believes that spirits have the power.

And she was gone-the waters wide and deep
Roll'd o'er her body as she lay asleep.
She heard no more the angry waves and wind,
She heard no more the threatenings of mankind;
Wrapt in dark weeds, the refuge of the storm,
To the hard rock was borne her comely form.

But oh! what storm was in that mind, what strife,
That could compel her to lay down her life!
For she was seen within the sea to wade
By one at distance, when she first had pray'd;
Then to a rock within the hither shoal,
Softly, and with a fearful step, she stole;
Then, when she gain'd it, on the top she stood
A moment still-and dropp'd into the flood!

Crabbe

The Last Tree of the Forest.

WHISPER, thou tree, thou lonely tree,
One, where a thousand stood!

Well might proud tales be told by thee,
Last of the solemn wood.

Dwells there no voice amidst thy boughs,
With leaves yet darkly green?
Stillness is round, and noontide glows-
Tell us what thou hast seen.

"I have seen the forest-shadows lie
Where now men reap the corn;

I have seen the kingly chase rush by,
Through the deep glades at morn.

'With the glance of many a gallant spear,
And the wave of many a plume,
And the bounding of a hundred deer,
It hath lit the woodland's gloom.

'I have seen the knight and his train ride past With his banner borne on high;

O'er all my leaves there was brightness cast From his gleamy panoply.

"The pilgrim at my feet hath laid

His palm-branch 'midst the flowers, And told his beads, and meekly prayed, Kneeling at vesper hours.

"And the merry men of wild and glen,
In the green array they wore,

Have feasted here with red wine's cheer,
And the hunter-songs of

yore.

"And the minstrel, resting in my shade,

Hath made the forest ring

With the lordly tales of the high crusade,

Once loved by chief and king.

But now the noble forms are gone
That walk'd the earth of old;
The soft wind hath a mournful tone,
The sunny light looks cold.

"There is no glory left us now,

Like the glory with the dead:
I would that where they slumber now
My latest leaves were shed!"

O thou dark tree, thou lonely tree!
That mournest for the past,
A peasant's home in thy shade I see,
Embower'd from every blast.

A lovely and a mirthful sound
Of laughter meets mine ear;
For the poor man's children sport around
On the turf, with nought to fear.

And roses lend that cabin-wall

A happy summer-glow;

And the open door stands free to all,
For it recks not of a foe.

And the village-bells are on the breeze
That stirs thy leaf, dark tree!

How can I mourn, 'midst things like these,
For the gloomy past with thee?

Anonymous.

Chorus from the Baccha of Euripides.

FROM Tmolus, whose majestic brow
Views Asia stretching wide below,
Light my frolic steps advance,
And to Bacchus lead the dance;
An easy, pleasing task, whilst high
Swells to the god the voice of harmony.
Is there who comes along the way?
Are there who in their houses stay?
Hence, begone, whoe'er you are!

To hallow'd sounds let each his voice prepare.
The song to Bacchus will I raise,

Hymning in order meet his praise.

STROPHE I.

His happy state what blessings crown
To whom the mysteries of the gods are known?
By these his life he sanctifies;

And, deep imbibed their chaste and cleansing lore
Hallows his soul for converse with the skies,

Enraptured ranging the wild mountains o'er:

The mighty mother's orgies leading,
He his head with ivy shading,

His light spear wreathed with ivy-twine,
To Bacchus holds the rites divine.
Haste, then, ye Bacchæ, haste!

Attend your god, the son of heaven's high king;
From Phrygia's mountains, wild and waste,
To beauteous-structured Greece your Bacchus bring.

EPODE.

Raptured, from the heights descending,
His nimbly-bounding train attending,
He rushes to the vales below,

Whilst loose his spotted vestments flow,
Pleased with the wild goat's offer'd blood,
Its flesh undress'd his followers food.
To Phrygia's steeps, to Lydia's ridges high
He leads, exulting leads his train;
Whilst Evoe, Evoe, is the joyful cry;

And as they pass, through every plain
Flows milk, flows wine, the nectar'd honey flows,
And round each soft gale Syrian odours throws.
But Bacchus, waving in his hand

The torch that from his hallow'd wand
Flames high, his roving Bacchæ leads;
And, shouting as he nimbly treads,
Flings to the wanton wind his streaming hair,
And wakes the rapture-breathing air.
Haste, ye Bacchæ, haste your flight!
From the gold-prolific height
Of Tmolus haste your frolic train,
And to Bacchus raise the strain;
To the deep-toned timbrel's sound,
Evoe, Evoe, shout around.

Loud the Phrygian cries repeat,
Whilst the flute, with accord sweet,
Breathing 'midst your sacred play,
Bids your feet its notes obey,
As with measured steps ye go
To the mountain's craggy brow;
Like the colt with wanton pride
Bounding by its mother's side,
Up the ridgy height advance,
And to Bacchus lead the dance.

Potter's Euripides.

315

SACRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE.

The Creation.

ERE Time began his circling race,
Or light adorn'd the waste of space,
Dwelt the first, great, eternal One,
In unimparted bliss alone.

Wrapt in himself, he view'd serene
Each aspect of the future scene;

Then bade at length that scene unfold,—
And Nature's volume stood unroll'd.

He said, Be Light!"—and light upsprung:
Be Worlds!"-and worlds on nothing hung:
More swift than thought the mandate runs,
And forms ten thousand kindling suns.
When all the wondrous scene was plann'd,
Inimitably fair and grand;

In emanations unconfined.

Forth flow'd the life-diffusing mind.
From the rapt seraph, down to man,-
To beasts-to worms-the spirit ran;
And all in heaven, and all on earth,
'Midst shouts of joy, received their birth.
The tribes that walk, or swim, or fly,
In various movements, spake their joy;
While man, in hymns, his raptures told,
And cherubs struck their harps of gold.

The morning stars together sung,
The heavens with acclamations rung;
And earth, and air, and sea, and skies,
Heard the loud choral anthem rise.

"All glory to the Eternal give,

From whom we spring, in whom we live;
Be his almighty power adored,
The sovereign. universal Lord!"

Drummond