Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but no, it cannot be Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed, so gentle, yet so free. And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn,
Can the hand which cast thee from it, now command thee to return.
Return, alas! my Arab steed, what shall thy master do,
When thou, who wert his all of joy, hast vanished from his view;
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears,
Thy bright form for a moment like the false mirage appears : Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary foot alone, Where with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne
And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause, and sadly think,
It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him
When last I saw thee drink?. Away! the fevered dream
I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no
They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong,
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long. Who said that I had given thee up?—who said that thou wert sold?
'Tis false! 'tis false! my Arab steed,-I fling them back their gold:
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains,
Away, who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains ! Mrs, Norton.
The golden light into the painter's room
Streamed richly, and the hidden colours stole
From the dark pictures radiantly forth,
And in the soft and dewy atmosphere
Like forms and landscapes magical they lay.
The walls were hung with armour, and about
In the dim corners stood the sculptured forms
Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove,
And from the casement soberly away
Fell the grotesque long shadows, full and true,
And, like a veil of filmy mellowness,
The lint-specks floated in the twilight air.
Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully
Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay,
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus-
The vulture at his vitals, and the links
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh;
And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim,
Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth
With its far-reaching fancy, and with form
And colour clad them, his fine, earnest eye
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip,
Were like the winged god's, breathing from his flight. 'Bring me the captive now!
My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift,
And I could paint the bow
Upon the bended heavens-around me play
Colours of such divinity to-day.
'Ha! bind him on his back!
Look!-as Prometheus in my picture here!
Quick-or he faints !—stand with the cordial near!
Now-bend him to the rack!
Press down the poisoned links into his flesh!
And tear agape that healing wound afresh!
'So-let him writhe! How long
Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now!
What a fine agony works upon his brow!
Ha! grey-haired, and so strong!
How fearfully he stifles that short moan!
Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!
""Pity" thee! So I do!
I pity the dumb victim at the altar-
But does the robed priest for his pity falter?
I'd rack thee though I knew
A thousand lives were perishing in thine-
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?
""Hereafter!" Ay-hereafter!
A whip to keep a coward to his track!
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back
To check the sceptic's laughter?
Come from the grave to-morrow with that story-
And I may take some softer path to glory.
'No, no, old man! we die
Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away
Our life upon the chance wind, even as they !
Strain well thy fainting eye-
For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er,
The light of heaven will never reach thee more.
'Yet there's a deathless name!
A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
And like a steadfast planet mount and burn—
And though its crown of flame
Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone,
By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on!
'Ay-though it bid me rifle
My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst-
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first—
Though it should bid me stifle
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild—
'All-I would do it all-
Sooner than die, like a dull worm to rot-
Thrust foully into earth to be forgot!
Oh, heavens! but I appal
Your heart, old man! forgive
Let him not faint!-rack him till he revives!
'Vain-vain-give o'er. His eye
He does not feel you now
Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow!
Gods! if he do not die
But for one moment-one-till I eclipse
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!
'Shivering! Hark! he mutters
Brokenly now that was a difficult breath—
Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death?
Look! how his temple flutters!
Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!
He shudders-gasps-Jove, help him !-so-he's dead.
The Death of Marmion.
With fruitless labour, Clara bound,
And strove to stanch the gushing wound;
The Monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers.
Ever, he said, that close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear;
And that the priest he could not hear,
For that she ever sung,
'In the lost battle, borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!'
So the notes rung ;-
'Avoid thee, Fiend !-with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand !—
Oh look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine!
Oh, think on faith and bliss!-
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this.'-
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale,
And-Stanley! was the cry;
A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye :
With dying hand, above his head
He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted 'Victory!
Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!'
Were the last words of Marmion.
But see! he starts-what heard he then ?
That dreadful shout!-across the glen
From the land-side it comes, and loud
Rings through the chasm; as if the crowd
Of fearful things that haunt that dell,
Its Gholes, and Dives, and shapes of hell,
Had all in one dread howl broke out,
So loud, so terrible that shout!
They come the Moslems come !'—he cries,
His proud soul mounting to his eyes :-
'Now, Spirits of the Brave! who roam
Enfranchised through yon starry dome,
Rejoice for souls of kindred fire
Are on the wing to join your choir !'
He said—and, light as bridegroom bounds,
With eager haste reclimbed the steep,
And gained the shrine :-his Chiefs stood round-
Their swords, as with instinctive leap,
Together, at that cry accursed,
Had, from their sheaths, like sunbeams, burst!
And hark !—again—again it rings :
Near and more near its echoings
Peal through the chasm.-Oh! who that then
Had seen those listening warrior-men,
With their swords grasped, their eyes of flame
Turned on their Chief-could doubt the shame,
The indignant shame, with which they thrill,
To hear those shouts, and yet stand still?
He read their thoughts-they were his own :-
'What! while our arms can wield these blades,
Shall we die tamely? die alone?
Without one victim to our shades-
One Moslem heart, where, buried deep,
The sabre from its toil may sleep?
No!-God of Iran's burning skies!
Thou scorn'st the inglorious sacrifice.
No!-though of all earth's hopes bereft,
Life, swords, and vengeance, still are left!
We'll make yon valley's reeking caves
Live in the awe-struck minds of men,
Till tyrants shudder, when their slaves
Tell of the Ghebers' bloody glen.
Follow, brave hearts !-this pile remains,
Our refuge still from life and chains;
But his the best, the holiest bed,
Who sinks entombed in Moslem dead !'
Henry V. to his Army at Agincourt.
If we are marked to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold;
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost:
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires :
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, 'faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour,
As one man more, methinks, would share from me,
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more :
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, throughout my host,
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