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With caution, and, at length does spy
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,
DRAMATIC AND SENTIMENTAL.
THE CHAMBER OF SICKNESS. FIRST VOICE-SECOND VOICE.
And the life-pulse is fluttering in death.
Shines—an image of man's fleeting breath.
And life's joys are all fading away.
And hope—cheers the soul with her ray.
Its hopes are all dead—its joy is despair.
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.
THE GREEK ORPHAN.
That breaks from the hills of our country now free;
The foemen I saw,-Oh, my father was there!
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.
And nerved to the battle the heroes who bled ?
My father I saw, in his pillared halls laid ;
Where is thy bower of the jessamin wild ?
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-SECOND VOICE.Karamsin.
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.
Mine is a fair and a pillared hall,