And now my race of terror run,
Mine be the eve of tropic sun!
No pale gradations quench his ray,
No twilight dews his wrath allay;
With disc like battle target red,
He rushes to his burning bed,
Dyes the wide wave with bloody light,
Then sinks at once-and all is night.

BASIL'S ADDRESS TO HIS MUTINOUS TROOPS.

BY JOANNA BAILLIE.

SOLDIERS! we've fought together in the field,
And bravely fought: i' the face of horrid death,
At honours call, I've led you dauntless on :
Nor do 1 know the man of all your bands,
That ever poorly from the trial shrunk,
Or yielded to the foes contended space.
Am I the meanest then of all my troops,
That thus ye think, with base unmanly threats,
To move me now? Put up those paltry weapons;
They edgeless are to him who fears them not :
Rocks have been shaken from the solid base;
But what shall move a firm and dauntless mind?

HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS.

BY SCOTT.

COUNT HAROLD gazed upon the oak
As if his eye-strings would have broke,
And then resolvedly said,―

"Be what it will yon phantom gray-
Nor heaven, nor hell, shall ever say
That for their shadows from his way
Count Harold turned dismayed:
I'll speak him, though his accents fill
My heart with that unwonted thrill-
Which vulgar minds call fear.

I will subdue it!"-Forth he strode,
Paused where the blighted oak-tree showed
Its sable shadow on the road,

And folding on his bosom broad

His arms, said, "Speak-I hear."

I dare assure thee, that no enemy
Shall ever take alive the noble Brutus:
The Gods defend him from so great a shame!
When you do find him, or alive, or dead,
He will be found like Brutus,-like himself.

Shakespeare.

IF THOU HAST LOST A FRIEND.

BY CHARLES SWAIN.

Is thou hast lost a friend,
By hard or hasty word,
Go,-call him to thy heart again;
Let pride no more be heard.
Remind him of those happy days,
Too beautiful to last;

Ask, if a word should cancel years
Of truth and friendship past?
Oh! if thou'st lost a friend,
By hard or hasty word,
Go,-call him to thy heart again;
Let pride no more be heard.

Oh! tell him, from thy thought
The light of joy hath fled;
That, in thy sad and silent breast,
Thy lonely heart seems dead;
That mount and vale,-each path ye trod,
By morn or evening dim,-
Reproach you with their frowning gaze,

And ask your soul for him.

Then, if thou'st lost a friend,
By hard or hasty word,

Go,-call him to thy heart again;

Let pride no more be heard.

FRIENDSHIP.

In companions

That do converse and waste the time together,
Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love,
There needs must be a like proportion
Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit

Shakespeare