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Hark! hark! the horrid sound
Has raised up his head,
As awaked from the dead;
And, amazed he stares around.
See the furies arise!
How they hiss in their hair,
Behold a ghastly band,
Each a torch in his hand! These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain,
And, unburied, remain
Inglorious on the plain.
To the valiant crew.
How they point to the Persian abodes,
And glittering temples of their hostile gods ! The princes applaud, with a furious joy! And the king seized a flambeau, with zeal to destroyi?
Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey;
Thus long ago,
And sounding lyre,
At last, divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame.
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added strength to solemn sounds,
Or both divid the crown:
She drew an angel down.
1. THE DESTRUCTION OF SENACHERIB.-Byron.
The sun of the morning looked forth from his throne,
And beamed on the face of the dead and the dying; For the yell of the strife, like the thunder, had flown.
And red on Gilboa the carnage was lying.
And there lay the husband that lately was prest
To the beautiful cheek that was tearless and ruddy; But the claws of the eagle were fixed in his breast,
And the beak of the vulture was busy and bloody.
And there lay the son of the widowed and sad,
Who yesterday went from her dwelling for ever; Now the wolf of the hills a sweet carnival had
On the delicate limbs that had ceased not to quiver.
And there came the daughter, the delicate child,
the head that was breathless and hoary; And there came the maiden, all frantic and wild,
To kiss the loved lips that were gasping and gory.
And there came the consort that struggled in vain
To stem the red tide of a spouse that bereft her ; And there came the mother that sunk 'mid the slain, To
weep o'er the last human stay that was left her.
Oh! bloody Gilboa, a curse ever lie
Where the king and his people were slaughtered together; May the dew and the rain leave thy herbage to die,
Thy flocks to decay, and thy forests to wither!
3. THE SHIELD.- -Moore.
Oh! did you not hear a voice of death?
And did you not mark the paly form Which rode on the silver mist of the heath,
And sung a ghostly dirge in the storin? Was it a wailing bird of the gloom,
Which shrieks on the house of wo all night? Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb,
To howl and to feed till the glance of light?
'Twas not the death-bird's cry from the wood,
Nor shivering fiend that hung in the blast, 'Twas the shade of Helderic-man of blood
See! how the red, red lightning strays,
And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath! Now on the leafless yew it plays,
Where hangs the shield of this son of death!
That shield is blushing with murderous stains,
Long has it hung from the cold yew's spray; It is blown by storms and washed by rains,
But neither can take the blood away!
Oft by that yew on the blasted field,
Demons dance to the red moon's light: While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging shield
Sings to the raving spirit of night!
THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF.—Hemans.
“Oh call my brother back to me,
I cannot play alone!
The butterfly is glancing bright
Across the sunbeam's track;
Oh call my brother back !
The flowers run wild—the flowers we sowed
Around our garden tree;
Oh call him back to ne!"
“He would not hear my voice, fair child !
He may not come to thee;
On earth no more thou'lt see.
The rose's brief, bright light of joy,
Such unto him was given;
Thy brother is in heaven."
6 And has he left his birds and flowers ?
And must I call in vain ?
Will he not come again?
And by the brook, and in the glade,
Are all our wanderings o'er ?
THE GIPSY WANDERER.-Anonymous.
'Twas night, and the farmer, his fireside near,
O'er a pipe quaffed his ale, stout and old; The hinds were in bed, when a voice struck his ear, “Let me in, I beseech you!" just so ran the prayer
“Let me in I am dying with cold.”
To his servant, the farmer cried—“Sue, move thy feet,
Admit the poor wretch from the storm;
And beside our wood embers grow warm.”
At that instant a gipsy-girl, humble in pacem
Bent before him, his pity to crave : He, starting, exclaimed, “wicked fiend, quit this place! A parent's curse light on the whole gipsy race!
They have bowed me almost to the grave !" "Good sir, as our tribe passed the churchyard below,
I 'just paused, the tuft graves to survey :I fancied the spot where my mother lies low, When suddenly came on a thick fall of snow And I know not a step
my way." “ This is craft!"—cried the farmer, "If I judge aright,
I suspect thy cursed gang may be near; Thou wouldst open
the doors to the ruffians of night; Thy eyes o'er the plunder now rove with delight,
And on me with sly treachery leer!"