“Beneath thy yoke the Volscian

Shall vail his lofty brow: Soft Capua's curled revellers

Before thy chairs shall bow : The Lucumoes of Arnus

Shall quake thy rods to see ; And the proud Samnite's heart of steel

Shall yield to only thee.

“ The Gaul shall come against thee

From the land of snow and night; Thou shalt give his fair-haired armies

To the raven and the kite.

« The Greek shall come against thee,

The conqueror of the East. Beside him stalks to battle

The huge earth-shaking beast, The beast on whom the castle

With all its guards doth stand, The beast who hath between his eyes

The serpent for a hand. First march the bold Epirotes,

Wedged close with shield and spear And the ranks of false Tarentum

Are glittering in the rear.

« The ranks of false Tarentum

Like hunted sheep shall fly:
In vain the bold Epirotes

Shall round their standards die:
And Apennine's grey vultures

Shall have a noble feast
On the fat and the eyes

Of the huge earth-shaking beast.

« Hurrah ! for the good weapons

That keep the War-gud's land.
Hurrah ! for Rome's stout pilum

In a stout Roman hand.
Hurrah ! for Rome's short broadsword,

That through the thick array
Of levelled spears and serried shields

Hews deep its gory way.

“ Then where, o’er two bright havens,

The towers of Corinth frown; Where the gigantic King of Day

On his own Rhodes looks down ;
Where soft Orontes murmurs

Beneath the laurel shades;
Where Nile reflects the endless length

Of dark-red colonnades;
Where, in the still deep water,

Sheltered from waves and blasts, Bristles the dusky forest

Of Byrsa's thousand masts;
Where fur-clad hunters wander

Amidst the northern ice;
Where through the sand of morning-land

The camel bears the spice;
Where Atlas filings his shadow

Far o'er the western foam,
Shall be great fear on all who hear
The mighty name of Rome.”

MACAULAY.

GUDRUN.

By her Sigurd's blood-stained bier,

As with equal death opprest, Gudrun sat; she shed no tear,

Her hand she smote not on her breast: Word, nor sign, nor act might show The wonted course of woman's woe. Sages came, the wisest they,

But vain the aids from art they borrow; Can rhetoric soothe, or reason sway,

That stern mood of deepest sorrow,
When the heart to bursting swells,
Yet no tear its anguish tells ?
Round her pressed a widowed train,

Sisters they, in grief united,
Calling back long scenes of pain,

Each her own sad tale recited :
Vainly thus to wake they try
The soothing power of sympathy.
Vainly; for her anguished mind,

Stunned beneath that sudden blow,
Hardens, to itself confined,
Nor
opens

to another's woe. Hard and cold was Gudrun's soul, Nor sigh would rise, nor tear would roll.

Last did youthful Gulrand speak

“Matrons, though in wisdom old,
Here, I ween, your skill is weak;

Age's counsels, all too cold,
Cannot reach the widowed heart,
When youth's strong loves are rent apart.”

With hurrying hand, from Sigurd's bier,

Swept she then the pall away:
“On him, thy love, look, Gudrun dear!

To his cold lip thy warm lip lay ;
And round him, as they still could hold
Thy living lord, thine arms enfold.”

Gudrun turned-one hurried glance

On that much-loved form she threw-
A moment viewed, where murder's lance

Had pierced the breast to her so true;
Saw stiff with blood those locks of gold,
And quenched that eye so bright, so bold.

She saw, and sank, and low reclined

Hid in the couch her throbbing head :
Her loose veil floated unconfined,

Her burning cheek was crimsoned red:
Then, her bursting heart's relief,
Copious fell the shower of grief."

• Translated, in “Cony beare's Anglo-Saxon Poetry,” from an Icelandic Poem. VENI CREATOR.

CREATOR SPIRIT, by whose aid
The world's foundations first were laid,
Come visit every pious mind;
Come

pour thy joys on human kind;
From sin and sorrow set us free,
And make thy temples worthy thee.

O, source of uncreated light,
The Father's promised Paraclete !
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire,
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire;
Come, and thy sacred unction bring,
To sanctify us while we sing.

Plenteous of grace, descend from high, , Rich in thy seven-fold energy! Thou strength of his Almighty hand, Whose power does heaven and earth command. Proceeding Spirit, our defence, Who dost the gift of tongues dispense, And crown'st thy gift with eloquence.

Refine and purge our earthly parts :
But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts :
Our frailties help, our vice control,
Submit the senses to the soul;
And when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay thy hand, and hold them down.