Sivut kuvina

With caution, and, at length does spy
The Magpie, perched on nail so high!
The wondering clown, from what he heard,
Believes dim something more than bird ;
With fear impressed, does now retreat
Towards the door with trembling feet;
Then -“ 'Thy name I do implore ?"
The ready bird replies—" Tom More."
“Oh dear!" the frighted clown replies,
With hair erect and staring eyes !
Half opening then the hovel door,
He asks the bird one question more:
“What brought you here ?”—with quick reply,
Sly Mag rejoins—“Bad company !


Out jumps the gardener in a fright, And runs away with all his might; And, as

runs, inpressed with dread Exclaims, “ Sure Satan's in the shed !"

The wondrous tale a bencher hears,
And soothes the man, and quells his fears,
Gets Mag secured in wicker cage,
Once more to spend his little rage :
In Temple Hall, now hung on high,
Mag oft exclaims—“Rad company!"







First Voice.
How awful the place-how gloomy-how chill!
Where the pangs of disease are lingering still,

And the life-pulse is fluttering in death.

Second Voice.
How delightful the place-how peaceful—how bright!
There, calmly, and sweetly, the taper's soft light,

Shines—an image of man's fleeting breath.

First Voice,
There the angel of death on the vitals is preying,
While beauty and loveliness fast are decaying,

And life's joys are all fading away.

Second Voice.
There the spirits of mercy round the pillow are flying,
As the angel-smile plays on the lips of the dying,

And hope—cheers the soul with her ray.

First Voice.
How the spirit is pained, e’en when loved ones are near,
Or sympathy bathes its lone couch with a tear;

Its hopes are all dead—its joy is despair.

Second Voice.
How the holiest endearments that kindred souls cherish,
Though the mortal decay and its graces all perish,

Are perfected and purified there.

First Voice. How ghastly the visage of death doth appear, How frightful the thought of the shroud and the bier, And the blood-crested worm how vile!

Second Voice. How friendly the hand that faith is now lending, How benignant her look o'er the pillow while bending, How sweet, how assuring her smile!

First Voice. There, in triumph, the death-knell is fitfully pealing, While the shivering chill to the cold heart is stealing, And the life-current warms-no-never

Second Voice. Hear the joy-speaking voice of some angel calling, As the visions of heaven, on the rapt soul are falling, And hope—is fruition for ever.




Child of the brave! hear the echo of glory,

That breaks from the hills of our country now free;
And the voice of our fathers—immortal in story,
Which speaks in the lessons of heroes to thee.

The sound of the battle I heard on the mountain ;

The foemen I saw,-Oh, my father was there!
I saw his red blood as it gushed like a fountain :
But what is the echo of glory and where ?

Paspati. "Tis the sound of the war-song we learned from cur mother;

The war-song of heroes who bled to be free: 'Tis the echo we heard on the hills, with our brothers, That speaks as the voice of the thunder to thee.

Epaminondas. 'Tis the great and good God who talks in the thunder,

Who breathes in the sweet and soft voices of spring; He hath broken the yoke of the Turkman asunder,

And taught us his praises, in boyhood to sing.

Thinkest thou it was God, who our green hills defended,

And nerved to the battle the heroes who bled ?
Ah! red were our fields ere the battle was ended,
Ah! white are our plains with the bones of the dead.

All bloody and pale, with his war-clothes around him,

My father I saw, in his pillared halls laid ;
Cold and dead was my brother-at evening I found him,
But the God of good children ne'er made me afraid.

And where is thy mother, boy ? lives she to bless thee ?

Where is thy bower of the jessamin wild ?
Thou livest in the stranger-land, strangers caress thee,
Where is the home of thy boyhood, fair child ?

Oh! my mother is dead—three long summers have ended

Since her kind and last kiss on my cheek she impressed An orphan she left me-alone, unbefriended,

But the God of the orphan-the Greek orphan blessed, For here, in the stranger-land green hills are round me, Home, father, and mother, and brothers have found me!




First Voice.
How frightful the grave! how deserted and drear!
With the howls of the storm-wind—the creaks of the bier,
And the white bones all clattering together!

Second Voice.
How peaceful the grave! its quiet how deep:
Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep,
And flowerets perfume it with ether.

First Voice.
There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead,
And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed,
And snakes in its nettle-weeds hiss.

Second Voice. How lovely, how sweet the repose of the tomb : No tempests are there :—but the nightingales come And sing their sweet chorus of bliss.

First Voice. The ravens of night flap their wings o'er the grave: 'Tis the vulture's abode :'tis the wolf's dreary cave, Where they tear up the earth with their fangs.

Second Voice. There the rabbit at evening disports with his love, Or rests on the sod ;—while the turtles above, Repose on the bough that o'erhangs.

First Voice. There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath And lothsome decay fill the dwelling of death ; And trees are all barren and bare !

Second Voice. Oh, soft are the breezes that play round the tomb, And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume, With lilies and jessamin fair.

First Voice. The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears, Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears, He is lanched on the wreck-covered river !

Second Voice. The traveler, outworn with life's pilgrimage dreary, Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary,

And sweetly reposes for ever.



Why wouldst thou leave me, oh! gentle child ?
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild,
A straw-roofed cabin with lowly wall

Mine is a fair and a pillared hall,
Where many an image of marble gleams,
And the sunshine of picture for ever streams.

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