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(Sleep, Richard of the lion heart !
Sleep on, nor from your cerements start)

Is England's friend and fast ally;
The Moslem tramples on the Greek,

And on the Cross and altar-stone,

And Christendom looks tamely on,
And hears the Christian maiden shriek,

And sees the Christian father die ;
And not a sabre-blow is given
For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven,

By Europe's craven chivalry.

You'll ask if yet the Percy lives

In the armed pomp of feudal state..
The present representatives

Of Hotspur and his “gentle Kate”
Are some half-dozen serving men
In the drab coat of William Penn;

A chambermaid, whose lip and eye,
And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling,

Spoke nature's aristocracy ;
And
one, half

groom,

half seneschal,
Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall,
From donjon-keep to turret wall,
For ten-and-sixpence sterling,

JOHN GARDNER CALKINS BRAINARD. [Born in 1796, died in 1828. In his brief career he was first called to the bar; then undertook the editorship of a weekly gazette ; and consumption closed a somewhat desultory and melancholy life].

SONNET TO THE SEA-SERPENT.
“ Hugest that swims the ocean stream."

WELTER upon the waters, mighty one

And stretch thee in the ocean's trough of brine ;
Turn thy wet scales up to the wind and sun,

And toss the billow from thy flashing fin;

Heave thy deep breathings to the ocean's din,
And bound upon its ridges in thy pride :

Or dive down to its lowest depths, and in
The caverns where its unknown monsters hide
Measure thy length beneath the gulf-stream's tide-

Or rest thee on that navel of the sea
Where, floating on the Maelstrom, abide

The krakens sheltering under Norway's lee ;
But go not to Nahant, lest men should swear
You are a great deal bigger than you are.

GEORGE P. MORRIS. [Born in 1801, died towards 1865.1 A general in the army, dramatist, and miscellaneous writer; especially popular for his songs, one of which is the universally known “Woodman, spare that tree").

THE RETORT.
OLD Nick, who taught the village school,

Wedded 'a maid of homespun habit;
He was stubborn as a mule,

She was playful as a rabbit.
Poor Jane had scarce become a wife,

Before her husband sought to make her
The pink of country polished life,

And prim and formal as a Quaker.
One day the tutor went abroad,

And simple Jenny sadly missed him ;
When he returned, behind her lord

She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him.
The husband's anger rose--and red

And white his face alternate grew.
“Less freedom, ma'am!”—Jane sighed and said,

“Oh dear! I didn't know 'twas you!"

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. (Born in 1808 at Haverhill, Massachusetts, where his ancestors, of the Quaker denomination, had long been settled. Mr. Whittier was early engaged in farming operations; and afterwards as a political, and more especially a protectionist, journalist. In 1836 he became one of the secretaries of the Anti-Slavery Society: and some of his most vigorous and rousing poems are devoted to that noble cause. He has also written various prose works; one of the chief among which is Supernaturalism in New England, published in 1847. The bulk of Mr. Whittier's poetical writings is considerable. His name stands high in the United States, and ought in England to be better known than as yet it is. An upright manly energy, and the tenderness of a strong yet delicate nature, are constantly conspicuous in his writings. These fine qualities are mostly associated with a genuine poetic grace, and in many instances with art truly solid and fine).

THE DEMON OF THE STUDY.
The Brownie sits in the Scotchman's room,

And eats his meat and drinks his ale,
And beats the maid with her unused broom,

And the lazy lout with his idle flail ;
But he sweeps the floor and threshes the corii,

And hies him away ere the break of dawn. 1 In this case and another (see Park Benjamin), where I say “towards 1865" as the date of death, I have reason to infer that the authors were alive in 1863, but have died since then, though the precise year of death is uncertain to me: 1865 is named as an approximation.

The shade of Denmark fled from the sun,

And the Cocklane ghost from the barnloft cheer, The fiend of Faust was a faithful one,

Agrippa's demon wrought in fear,
And the devil of Martin Luther sat
By the stout inonk's side in social chat.
The Old Man of the Sea, on the neck of him

Who seven times crossed the deep,
Twined closely each lean and withered limb,

Like the nightmare in one's sleep.
But he drank of the wine, and Sinbad cast
The evil weight from his back at last.
But the demon that cometh day by day

To my quiet room and fireside nook,
Where the casement light falls dim and grey

On faded painting and ancient book,
Is a sorrier one than any whose names
Are chronicled well by good king James.
No bearer of burdens like Caliban,

No runner of errands like Ariel,
He comes in the shape of a fat old man,

Without rap of knuckle or pull of bell ;
And whence he comes, or whither he goes,
I know as I do of the wind which blows.
A stout old man with a greasy hat

Slouched heavily down to his dark red nose,
And two grey eyes enveloped in fat,

Looking through glasses with iron bows. Read ye, and heed ye, and ye who can Guard well your doors from that old man ! He comes with a careless “How d'ye do ?”

And seats himself in my elbow-chair;
And my morning paper and pamphlet new

Fall forth with under his special care ;
And he wipes his glasses and clears his throat,
And, button by button, unfolds his coat.
And then he reads from paper and book,

In a low and husky asthmatic tone,
With the stolid sameness of posture and look

Of one who reads to himself alone :
And hour after hour on my senses come
That husky wheeze and that dolorous hum.
The price of stocks, the auction sales,

The poet's song and the lover's glee,
The horrible murders, the seaboard gales,

The marriage list, and the jeu d'esprit,
All reach my ear in the selfsame tone,-
I shudder at each, but the fiend reads on !
Oh sweet as the lapse of water at noon

O'er the mossy roots of some forest tree,
The sigh of the wind in the woods of June,

Or sound of flutes o’er a moonlight sea, Or the low soft music, perchance, which seems To float through the slumbering singer's dreams, – So sweet, so dear is the silvery tone

Of her in whose features I sometimes look, As I sit at eve by her side alone,

And we read by turns from the selfsame book,Some tale perhaps of the olden time, Some lover's romance or quaint old rhyme. Then when the story is one of woe,

Some prisoner's plaint through his dungeon-bar, Her blue eye glistens with tears, and low

Her voice sinks down like a moan afar ; And I seem to hear that prisoner's wail, And his face looks on me worn and pale. And, when she reads some merrier song,

Her voice is glad as an April bird's; And, when the tale is of war and wrong,

A trumpet's summons is in her words, And the rush of the hosts I seem to hear, And see the tossing of plume and spear !Oh pity me then, when, day by day,

The stout fiend darkens my parlour door ; And reads me perchance the selfsame lay

Which melted in music, the night before, From lips as the lips of Hylas sweet,

And moved like twin roses which zephyrs meet ! I cross my floor with a nervous tread,

I whistle and laugh and sing and shout, :
I flourish my cane above his head,

And stir up the fire to roast him out ;
I topple the chairs, and drum on the pane,
And press my hands on my ears, in vain !
I've studied Glanville and James the wise,

And wizard black-letter tomes which treat
Of demons of every name and size

Which a Christian man is presumed to meet,
But never a hint and never a line
Can I find of a reading fiend like mine.

I've crossed the Psalter with Brady and Tate,

And laid the Primer above them all,
I've nailed a horseshoe over the grate,

And hung a wig to my parlour wall,
Once worn by a learned Judge, they say,
At Salem court in the witchcraft day.
Conjuro te, sceleratissime,

Abire ad tuum locum !”-Still
Like a visible nightmare he sits by me, -

The exorcism has lost its skill ;
And I hear again in my haunted room
The husky wheeze and the dolorous hum !
Ah !-commend me to Mary Magdalen

With her sevenfold plagues,--to the wandering Jew,-
To the terrors which haunted Orestes when

The furies his midnight curtains drew;
But charm him off, ye who charm him can,
That reading demon, that fat old man !

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. [Born in 1809. A Physician, and Professor of Anatomy in Harvard University. Well known as author of The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table and other prose writings, as well as poems-humorous, critical, or occasional, for the most part].

THE TREADMILL SONG.
The stars are rolling in the sky,

The earth rolls on below,
And we can feel the rattling wheel

Revolving as we go.
Then tread away, my gallant boys,

And make the axle fly;
Why should not wheels go round about,

Like planets in the sky?
Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged man,

And stir your solid pegs! -
Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend,

And shake your spider legs;
What though you're awkward at the trade,

There's time enough to learn,-
So lean upon the rail, my lad,

And take another turn.
They've built us up a noble wall,

To keep the vulgar out ;
We've nothing in the world to do

But just to walk about ;

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