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“I sank down on the couch to rest,
The while he watched near;
I woke - and I am here!"
Till the Dictator quaked; or when be bore
In triumph trophies from ten nations quelled,
" Not now as then — pale, thoughtful, ill at rest, THE DREAM OF PETICIUS.
His fate seemed warring with his mighty will;
His hand on his contracted brow was prest,
As it the force of throbbing thought could still ; STILL lay the vessel like a sleeping thing;
Anon he wrapped his mantle o'er his breast
With a calm hand, as nerved for coming ill,
And claimed protection from his following foes."
VIII. Lay like a mirror, in whose depths were seen
Even while some pondering sate with thoughtful air, Each sunlit peak, and woody headland green.
And some made merry with so strange a tale, II.
All eyes were turned in sudden wonder where More than a league they had not sailed that day;
White o'er the waters gleamed a little sail ;Yet on the coast was seen each sleeping hill;
On through the calm the striving pinnace bare ;And island, that at noon before them lay,
Then sorrow woke, and firmest brows grew pale, In the calm evening lay before them still.
For worn and wearied, Pompey they behold, The wearied seamen sped the time away
Even as that prophetic dream foretold.
He fled — his star of fate was in the wane;
He had lived a life of victory to see
In one brief hour his veteran legions slain ;Had been in foreign lands and voyage spent; But yesterday - the world's proud lord was he, Who brought back marvellous history from each clime,
To-day — a fugitive upon the main ;And found adventure wheresoe'er he went.
Like a fair tree by sudden blight defaced,
Blasted and withering in the desert waste.
The sea for him by that dead calm was bound,
For now a strong wind filled the swelling sail, * T was while our vessel scudding to the breeze,
And shook the cordage with a rattling sound; Fled, like a strong bird, from your pleasant shore, Forward the pennon floated on the gate, My dream was of these bright and stirless seas,
And the dark living waters heaved around; The flagging canvass, and the useless oar;
No more the islands to the right they hail, I saw, as now I see, in slumbrous ease
Green Pelion's woody crown no more was seen ;
LODORE, A SUMMER VISION.
Oft in the days of bright July,
When the parched earth is brown and dry, Make towards the ship. Within, a litile band
And the hot noon-day's sun looks down Sate in mute sadness, as by travel spent;
Upon the dusty, barren town, And ʼmid them one, superior to the rest,
And scorching walls, sun-smitten, glare Pale, as his soul by heavier thought was prest.
And stifling is the breezeless air,
And through the day, flows all around
A ceaseless tide of wearying sound, “They neared.-and marvelling yet more and more, And busy crowds with restless feet, I saw 'twas Pompey; not as I beheld
Pass up and down the burning street, Him in the senate, when he stood before
I sit in some still room apart, Fierce Sylla, and with taunts his wrath repelled, And summer visions fill my heart ;
DU GUESCLIN'S RANSOM.
Visions of beauty, green and cool -
I think of some old country hall,
I think of mountains still and grey, Stretching in summer light away, Where the blue, cloudless skies repose Above the solitude of snows; Of gleaming lakes, whose waters lie In restless beauty sparklingly; Of little island-nooks of rest Where the grave heron makes her nest ; And wild cascades with hurrying roar, Like the sweet tumult of Lodore Lodore! - that name recalls to me Visions of stern sublimity, And pastoral vales, and lonely rills, And shepherd people on the hills,— And more,-old names of men unknown Save on their mouldering church-yard stone, Or to some mountain-chronicler Who talketh of the days that were ;For, in gone years, they of my race Had, 'mong the hills, their dwelling-place, In an old mansion that doth stand As in the heart of fairy land. Then mountains, lakes, and glorious skies Lived in their children's memories, There tended they, in evening hours, Their garden's antiquated flowers, And, on the Skiddaw mountain grey They gambolled through the sunny day,Blest summer revellers! and did float On Keswick Lake their little boat!
THE black Prince Edward sate at meat
Amid his chivalrie,
And the rosy wine ran free :
And the Prince sate on the dais,
Upon that day of grace :
And some they gaily sang,
To the dusky rafters rang;
There sate an aged knight,
Had dimmed his spirits light;
Doth mar our heartsome cheer!
Or stay no longer here." “My liege.” said he,“ my soul is dark
With pondering on the wrong,
Within a dungeon strong,
To hear the small birds' song,
Thou'rt blamed for his thrall,
And the fair dames in the hall!"
“No longer on a name,
Shall rest unknightly shame!
Myself will do him right."
Was brought the prisoned knight.
Name now thy ransom see,
Thy ransom it shall be !"
Stood proudly in the ring,
From thrall a captive king;
“Sir Knight, I say thee nay;
No Christian knight could pay!
And haughtier grew his brow,
By such a man as thou !
The sum would not gainsay,
Let Mammon's sons with visage lean,
I know a hundred Breton knights,
Might his grey father unto tears be moved,
Listening his grateful praise, — his tears were unAnd each his old and fair domain
reproved. Would sell to make me free; There's not a woman at her wheel
Her bright eyes sparkling with delight and love, Throughout this chivalrons land,
Told his young sister of his travel wide,
Of pleasant sojourn in some palmy grove,
And Indian cities in their gorgeous pride;
Of desert isles where savage tribes abide, “Give me thy hand!" said he,
And glorious shores and regions of old fame : " Sir Knight, thou’rt brave as thou art proud
Then were his trophies from all lands displayed, And thou honourest chivalrie,
Belt, baracan, and bow of wondrous frame,
High, nodding crest, and deadly battle blade,
And birds of curious note in glittering plumes arrayed.
And, in her joyful phrase, she told how he, And the old knight said, as he poured the wine, Ere their next meeting, o'er the wave would come, “ 'T was a fair deed nobly done."
Like a glad spirit, to partake their glee,
And cast delight and interest round his home :
Gaily she told, how sitting in that room
When the next harvest-moon lit up the pane, Rode forward, from that castle-gate,
He should, himself, his marvellous tales relate. The bravest man of France;
-Alas! encircled by the Indian main,
That night beneath a tamarind tree he sate,
Heart-sick with thoughts of home and ponderings on “Du Guesclin hath great honoar done
his fate. To France and chivalrie !"
The heavy sea broke thundering on the shore, The dark, dark night had gathered in the sky,
And from the desert mountains came the roar THE HOUSEHOLD FESTIVAL. of ravening, creatures, and a wild, shrill cry
From the scared night-birds slowly wheeling by 'Twas when the harvest
moon came slowly up, And there he lay, beneath the spreading tree, Broad, red and glorious o'er dark groves of pine ; Feverish and faint, and over heart and brain
In the hushed eve, when closed the flow'rel's cup, Rushed burning love, and sense of misery, And the blue grape hung dewy on the vine, And wild, impatient grief, and longings vain Forth from a porch where tendrilled plants entwine, Within his blessed home to be at rest again.
Weaving a shadowy hower of odorous things, Rich voices came, telling that there were met
Another year—and the relentless wave Beauty and youth, and mirth whose buoyant wings Had washed away the white bones from the shore; · Soaring aloft o'er thoughts that gloom and fret, And mourning for his son, down to the grave Gave man release from care or lured him to forget.
Had gone the old man with his locks all hoar ;
The household festival was held no more ;And, as the moon rose higher in the sky,
And when the harvest-moon came forth again, Casting a mimic day on all around,
O'er the dark pines, in red autumnal state, Lighting dim garden paths, through branches high, Her light fell streaming through the window-pana That cast their chequered shadows on the ground; Of that old room, where his young sister sate Light maidens, dancing with elastic bound, With her down-droopèd head, and heart all desolate.
Like fairy revellers, in one place were seen;
The dark, thick laurels formed a bowery screen;
THE THREE AGES. air.
How beautiful are ye, Another hour, and in a lighted room
Age, Youth, and Infancy! Where glorious pictures lined the lofty wall,
She, with slowly tottering pace, They sate in social ease ;-no brow of gloom,
She, with light and youthful grace, No saddened, downcast eye, that might recall
And the child with clustering locks; Sorrowful musing, dimmed the festival.
All, all are beautiful! It was in honour of a gallant youth
For in them I can see, Those friends were met, the friends he dearest Thus pictured forth, a lesson that is full loved,
of the strong interests of humanity. All wishing he were there – and well, in sooth, Childhood all sorrow mocks;
Why virtue is so weak, why evil strong;
It dwells in pleasant places; Sees ever-smiling faces ! Flowers, and fair butterflies, and pebbly brooks, These are its teachers and its lesson-books! If chance a cloud come over it to-day, Before to-morrow it hath passed away. It has no troubling dreams; No cogitations dark, no wily schemes ; It counteth not the cost Of what its soul desires, with thoughtful trouble ; Knows not how days are lost — How love is but a bubble ; Knows not an aching forehead, a tired brain; Nor the heart sickening with a hopeless pain! Oh, happy infancy! Life's cares have small companionship with thee ! A child no more! a maiden now, A graceful maiden, with a gentle brow; A cheek tinged lightly, and a dove-like eye; And all hearts bless her, as she passes by! Fair creature, in this morning of her youth, She is all love, she is all truth! She doubteth none; she doth believe All true, for she can not deceive! Dear maiden, thou must learn, ere long, That hope has but a Syren's song; That Love is not what he would swear; That thou must look before, behind The gentlest need be most aware — A serpent 'mong the flowers is twined ! I mourn, sweet maiden, thou must learn Aught so ungracious, aught so stern!
Oh, youth! how fair, how dear thou art;
MOURNING ON EARTH. She lay down in her poverty,
Toil-stricken, though so young; And the words of human sorrow
Fell trembling from her tongue. There were palace-houses round her;
And pomp and pride swept by The walls of that poor chamber,
Where she lay down to die. Two were abiding with her,
The lowly of the earth, Her feeble, weeping sister,
And she who gave her birth. She lay down in her poverty,
Toil-stricken, though so young; And the words of human sorrow
Fell from her trembling tongue. “Oh, Lord, thick clouds of darkness
About my soul are spread, And the waters of affliction
Have gathered o'er my head ! “Yet what is life? A desert,
Whose cheering springs are dry, A weary, barren wilderness!
Still it is hard to die !
Is with my life entwined ;
To leave the weak behind ! " Oh Saviour, who didst drain the dregs
Of human woe and pain, In this, the fiercest trial-hour,
My doubting soul sustain ! “ I sink, I sink! support me;
Deep waters round me roll! I fear! I faint! O Saviour,
Sustain my sinking soul.!"
Age, leaning on its staff, with feeble limb, Grey hair, and vision dim, Doth backward turn its eye, And few and evil seem the days gone by! Oh! venerable age! hast thou not proved all things, Love, Hope, and Promise fair, And seen them vanish into air, Like rainbows on a summer's eve! Riches unto themselves have taken wings; Love flattered to deceive; And Hope has been a traitor unto thee! And thou hast learned, by many a bitter tear, By days of weary sorrow, nights of fear, That all is vanity! Yet, venerable age, Full of experience sage, Well may the good respect thee, and the wise! For thou hast living faith, Triumphant over death, Which makes the future lovely to thine eyes ! Thou knowest that, ere long, "T will be made known to thee,
REJOICING IN HEAVEN.
“Oh spirit, freed from bondage,
Rejoice, thy work is done! The weary world is 'neath thy feet, Thou brighter than the sun!
Or are they daintiest meats
Sent up on silver fine?
With rich Falernian wine ?
Broad lands our fathers held; Parks for our deer; ponds for our fish;
And woods that may be felled ?
· Arise, put on the garments
Which the redeemed wore ! Now sorrow hath no part in thee,
Thou sanctified from sin! “Awake and breathe the living air
Of our celestial clime! Awake to love which knows no change,
Thou, who hast done with time! " Awake, lift up thy joyful eyes,
See, all heaven's host appears ; And be thou glad exceedingly,
Thou, who hast done with tears! “Awake! ascend! Thou art not now
With those of mortal birth,-
Thou who hast done with earth !"
No, no, they are not these! or else,
God help the poor man's need! Then, sitting 'mid his little ones,
He would be poor indeed!
Belongs not to degree;
The children at our knee !
THE TEMPLE OF JUGGERNAUT.
My heart is filled with gladness
When I behold how fair, How bright, are rich men's children,
With their thick golden hair! For I know 'mid countless treasure,
Gleaned from the cast and west, These living, loving human things,
Are still the rich man's best!
This is the most celebrated and sacred temple in Hindostan, and was built about the year 1198, by Rajah Anonda Bheem Deb, at a cost of 500,000 pounds sterling. The principal entrance is the Singha-Devar, or the “Lion-Gate," immediately in front of which is a beautiful column dedicated to the sun.
The chief idol, called Juggernaut, is a huge unsightly figure of wood, bearing some distant resemblance to the human form: it is painted black, with a red mouth, and large red and white circles for eyes.
The ceremony of drawing the car takes place in June, and it is calculated that about 200,000 pilgrims, three-fourths of them females, annually resort to this festival, of whom at least 50,000) perish by sickness, hunger, and fatigue, and by voluntarily throwing themselves under its ponderous wheels.
But my heart o'erfloweth to mine eyes,
And a prayer is on my tongue, When I see the poor man's children,
The toiling, though the young, Gathering with sunburnt hands
The dusty wayside flowers ! Alas! that pastime symbolleth
Life's after, darker hours.
My heart o'erfloweth to mine eyes,
When I see the poor man stand, After his daily work is done,
With children by the hand And this, he kisses tenderly;
And that, sweet names doth callFor I know he has no treasure
Like those dear children small!
THE winds are stirred with tumult-on the air
Sound drum and trumpet, atabal and gong
Strong voices loud uplift a barbarous song. Vast is the gathering—while the priests declare The seven-headed god is passing there.
On roll his chariot-wheels, while every roll
From prostrate bodies crushes forth a soul; Rejoicing such last agony to bear.
Such are thy creeds. O man! when thou art given To thy own fearful nature-false and stern!
What were we now, but that all-pitying Heaven Sent us a holier, purer faith to learn ?
Type of its message came the white-winged doveWhat is the Christian's creed? — Faith, Hope and
Oh, children young, I bless ye,
Ye keep such love alive!
Where love has room to thrive!
Life's sweetest, holiest claim The Saviour blessed ye while on earth,
I bless ye in His name!
THE MOSQUE OF SULTAN ACHMET.
What are they? gold and silver,
Or what such ore can buy? The pride of silken luxury ;
Rich robes of Tyrian dye? Guests that come thronging in
With lordly pomp and state? Or thankless, liveried serving-men,
To stand about the gate?
Young Achmet the Sultan ariseth to-day,