Puslapio vaizdai
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The midnight—brought the signal-sound of strife;
The morn -the marshalling in arms,
Battle's magnificently-stern array!

the day—

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover-heap'd and pent,

Rider and horse,—friend, foe,-in one red burial

blent!

85.

FRIENDS.

LORD BYRON.

FRIE

RIEND after friend departs;
Who hath not lost a friend?
There is no union here of hearts,
That finds not here an end;
Were this frail world our only rest,
Living or dying, none were blest.
Beyond the flight of time,

Beyond this vale of death,
There surely is some blessed clime
Where life is not a breath,
Nor life's affections transient fire,
Whose sparks fly upwards and expire.

There is a world above,

Where parting is unknown,
A whole eternity of love,

Form'd for the good alone;
And faith beholds the dying here
Translated to that glorious sphere.

Thus star by star declines,
Till all are pass'd away,

As morning high and higher shines,
To pure and perfect day;

Nor sink those stars in empty night;

They hide themselves in heaven's own light.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

BE

86. SCHOOL DAYS.

[From TIROCINIUM.]

E it a weakness, it deserves some praise,We love the play-place of our early days; The scene is touching, and the heart is stone That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. The wall on which we tried our graving skill, The very name we carved subsisting still; The bench on which we sat while deep employed, Though mangled, hack'd, and hew'd, not yet destroy'd; The little ones, unbutton'd, glowing hot, Playing our games, and on the very spot, As happy as we once, to kneel and draw The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw, To pitch the ball into the grounded hat, Or drive it devious with a dexterous pat; The pleasing spectacle at once excites Such recollection of our own delights, That, viewing it, we seem almost t' obtain Our innocent, sweet, simple years again. This fond attachment to the well-known place, Whence first we started into life's long race,

Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway,
We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day.

COWPER.

87. THE DEATH OF VIRGINIA.

[From LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME.]

TRAIGHTWAY Virginius led the maid a little space aside, To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide,

Close to yon low, dark archway, where, in a crimson flood,
Leaps down to the great sewer the gurgling stream of blood.
Hard by, a flesher on a block had laid his whittle down;
Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown:
And then his eye grew very dim, and his throat began to swell,
And in a hoarse, changed voice he spoke, "Farewell, sweet child,
farewell!

Oh! how I loved my darling! Though stern I sometimes be,
To thee, thou know'st, I was not so- who could be so to thee?
And how my darling loved me! how glad she was to hear
My footstep on the threshold, when I came back last year;
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 these things are over-yes, all thy pretty ways,
Thy needle-work, 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 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, spurn'd, betray'd, 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 portions of the slave;

Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow,— Foul 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 thisWith 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.

LORD MACAULAY

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88. THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

HILD, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;

Mother, with thy earnest eye,
Ever following silently;

Father, by the breeze of eve,
Call'd thy harvest-work to leave;
Pray!- —ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart and bend the knee.

Traveller, in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor, on the darkening sea,
Lift the heart and bend the knee.

Warrior, that from battle won,
Breathest now at set of sun;

Woman, o'er the lowly slain,
Weeping on his burial plain!
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie :
Heaven's first star alike ye see—
Lift the heart and bend the knee.

MRS. HEMANS.

89. YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

YE

mariners of England!

That guard our

native seas;

Whose flag has braved a thousand years

The battle and the breeze;

Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

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