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watchful assiduities; the last testimonies of expiring love; the feeble, faltering, thrilling (oh! how thrilling!) pressure of the hand; the last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the threshold of existence; the faint, faltering accents struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection! Aye, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that being who can never, never, never return to be soothed by thy contrition!

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged in thought, word or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart that now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul; then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear; more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing.

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living.

Ex. LXXIII.-THE GLADIATOR.

THEY led a lion from his den,

The lord of Afric's sun-scorched plain;
And there he stood, stern foe of men,
And shook his flowing mane.
There's not of all Rome's heroes, ten
That dare abide this game.

His bright eye nought of lightning lacked;
His voice was like the cataract.

JONES.

They brought a dark-haired man along,

Whose limbs with gyves of brass were bound; Youthful he seemed, and bold, and strong,

And yet unscathed of wound.

Blithely he stepped among the throng,
And careless threw around

A dark eye, such as courts the path
Of him, who braves a Dacian's wrath.

Then shouted the plebeian crowd,-
Rung the glad galleries with the sound;
And from the throne there spake aloud

A voice,-"Be the bold man unbound!
And, by Rome's scepter, yet unbowed,
By Rome, earth's monarch crowned,
Who dares the bold, the unequal strife,
Though doomed to death, shall save his life."

Joy was upon that dark man's face;
And thus, with laughing eye, spake he;
"Loose ye the lord of Zaara's waste,
And let my arms be free:

'He has a martial heart,' thou sayest ;-
But oh who will not be
A hero, when he fights for life,

For home, and country, babes, and wife !"

And thus I for the strife prepare:

The Thracian falchion to me bring;
But ask th' imperial leave to spare
The shield, a useless thing.
Were I a Samnite's rage to dare,
Then o'er me would I fling
The broad orb; but to lion's wrath
The shield were but a sword of lath."

And he has bared his shining blade,

And springs he on the shaggy foe;
Dreadful the strife, but briefly played ;-
The desert-king lies low:

His long and loud death-howl is made;
And there must end the show.
And when the multitude were calm,.
The favorite freed man took the palm.

"Kneel down, Rome's emperor beside !"
He knelt, that dark man ;-o'er his brow
Was thrown a wreath in crimson died;
And fair words gilt it now:

"Thou art the bravest youth that ever tried
To lay a lion low;

And from our presence forth thou go'st
To lead the Dacians of our host."

Then flushed his cheek, but not with pride,
And grieved and gloomily spake he:
"My cabin stands where blithely glide

Proud Danube's waters to the sea:
I have a young and blooming bride,
And I have children three

No Roman wealth or rank can give
Such joy as in their arms to live.

My wife sits at the cabin door,

With throbbing heart and swollen eyes;—
While tears her cheek are coursing o'er,
She speaks of sundered ties.

She bids my tender babes deplore
The death their father dies;
She tells these jewels of my home,
I bleed to please the rout of Rome.

I can not let those cherubs stray
Without their sire's protecting care;
And I would chase the griefs away
Which cloud my wedded fair."
The monarch spoke; the guards obey;
And gates unclosed are:

He's gone!-No golden bribes divide
The Dacian from his babes and bride.

Ex. LXXIV.-THE SHIPWRECK.

HER giant form,

O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm,

Majestically calm, would go,

'Mid the deep darkness, white as snow!

WILSON.

But gently now the small waves glide
Like playful lambs o'er a mountain side.
So stately her bearing, so proud her array,
The main she will traverse for ever and aye.

Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast.

Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this hour is her last!

Five hundred souls, in one instant of dread,

Are hurried o'er the deck;

And fast the miserable ship

Becomes a lifeless wreck.

Her keel hath struck upon a hidden rock;

Her planks are torn asunder;

And down come her masts with a reeling shock,

And a hideous crash like thunder;

Her sails are draggled in the brine,

That gladdened late the skies;

And her pendant that kissed the fair moonshine,

Down many a fathom lies!

Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues

Gleamed softly from below,

And flung a warm and sunny flush

O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow,
To the coral rocks are hurrying down,
To sleep amid colors as bright as their own.
Oh! many a dream was in the ship

An hour before her death;

And sights of home with sighs disturbed
The sleeper's long-drawn breath.
Instead of the murmur of the sea,
The sailor heard the humming tree,
Alive through all its leaves,
The hum of the spreading sycamore
That grows before his cottage-door,
And the swallow's song in the eaves.
His arms enclosed a blooming boy,
Who listened with tears of sorrow and joy
To the dangers his father had passed;

And his wife,-by turns she wept and smiled,
As she looked on the father of her child
Returned to her heart at last.-

He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll,
And the rush of waters is in his soul.-
Astounded the reeling deck he paces,
'Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces ;-

The whole ship's crew are there:
Wailing around, and overhead,-
Brave spirits stupefied or dead,-
And madness and despair!

Now is the ocean's bosom bare,
Unbroken as the floating air;
The ship hath melted quite away,
Like a struggling dream at break of day

No image meets my wandering eye

But the new-risen sun, and the sunny sky.

Though the night shades are gone, yet a vapor

Bedims the waves so beautiful;

While a low and melancholy moan

Mourns for the glory that hath flown!

dull

Ex. LXXV.-A FRENCHMAN'S RECEIPT FOR RATSBAÑE.

A FRENCHMAN once, who was a merry wight,
Passing to town from Dover in the night,
Near the roadside an ale-house chanced to spy,
And being rather tired as well as dry,
Resolved to enter; but first he took a peep,
In hopes a supper he might get, and cheap.
He enters; 66 Hallo! garçon, if you please,
Bring me a little bit of bread and cheese.
And, hallo! garçon, a pot of porter, too," he said,
"Vich I shall take, and den myself to bed."

His supper done, some scraps of cheese were left,
Which our poor Frenchman, thinking it no theft,
Into his pocket put; then slowly crept
To wished-for bed; but not a wink he slept;
For, on the floor some sacks of flour were laid,
To which the rats a nightly visit paid.
Our hero now undressed, popped out the light,
Put on his cap, and bade the world good night;
But first his breeches, which contained the fare,
Under his pillow he had placed with care.

Sans ceremonie, soon the rats all ran,
And on the flour-sacks greedily began;

ANON.

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