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Hark! hark! the horrid sound

Has raised up his head,

As awaked from the dead;

And, amazed he stares around.
Revenge, revenge! Timotheus cries-

See the furies arise!
See the snakes that they rear,

How they hiss in their hair,
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes !

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.
Give the vengeance due

To the valiant crew.
Behold! how they toss their torches on high,

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;
And, like another Helen-fired another Troy.

Thus long ago,
Ere heaving bellows learned to blow,
While organs yet were mute ;
Timotheus, to his breathing flute

And sounding lyre,
Could swell the soul to rage-or kindle soft desire.

At last, divine Cecilia came,

Inventress of the vocal frame.
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store

Enlarged the former narrow bounds,

And added strength to solemn sounds,
With nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divid the crown:
He raised a mortal to the skies;

She drew an angel down.


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The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the angel of death spread his wings on the ast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever were still !
And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,
But through them there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray on the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord !

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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,
To hold


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

It screams for the guilt of days that are past!

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!



“Oh call my brother back to me,

I cannot play alone!
The summer comes with flower and bee,
Where is



gone ?

The butterfly is glancing bright

Across the sunbeam's track;
I care not now to chase its flight

Oh call my brother back !

The flowers run wild—the flowers we sowed

Around our garden tree;
Our vine is drooping with its load-

Oh call him back to ne!"

“He would not hear my voice, fair child !

He may not come to thee;
The face that once like spring-time smiled,

On earth no more thou'lt see.

The rose's brief, bright light of joy,

Such unto him was given;
Go, thou must play alone, my boy!

Thy brother is in heaven."

6 And has he left his birds and flowers ?

And must I call in vain ?
And through the long, long summer hours,

Will he not come again?

And by the brook, and in the glade,

Are all our wanderings o'er ?
Oh! while my brother with me played,

Would I had loved him more.”



'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;
For our chimney will not lose a jot of its heat,
Although the night wanderer may there find a seat,

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!"

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