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" "I've spun a piece of hempen cloth,

And I want to spin another, -
A little sheet for Mary's bed,

And an apron for her mother!'

“And with that I could not help but laugh,

And I laughed out loud and free;
And then on the top of the Caldon-Low

There was no one left but me.

“ And all on the top of the Caldon-Low
The mists were cold and

And nothing I saw but the mossy stones

That round about me lay.

“But as I came down from the hill-top,

I heard, afar below,
How busy the jolly miller was,

And how merry the wheel did go.

“And I peeped into the widow's field,

And, sure enough, were seen
The yellow ears of the mildewed corn

All standing stiff and green.

“ And down by the weaver's croft I stole,

To see if the flax were high ;
But I saw the weaver at his gate,

With the good news in his eye!

“Now, this is all I heard, mother,

And all that I did see;
So, prithee, make my bed, mother,

For I'm tired as I can be !”

Rev. HENRY HART MILMAN. 1791-, Mr. Milman is the author of a History of the Jews, and of several dra


poems, among which are The Fall of Jerusalem, The Martyr of


Antioch, and Belshazzar. Samor, the Lord of the Bright_City, is an epic, in twelve books. This author has held the office of Professor of Poetry, at Oxford.



The hour is come! the hour is come! With voice
Heard in thy inmost soul, I summon thee,
Cyrus, the Lord's anointed! And thou river,
That flowest exulting in thy proud approach
To Babylon, beneath whose shadowy walls,
And brazen gates, and gilded palaces,
And groves that gleam with marble obelisks,
Thy azure bosom shall repose, with lights
Fretted and chequered like the starry heavens;
I do arrest thee in thy stately course,
By Him that poured thee from thine ancient fountain,
And sent thee forth, even at the birth of time,
One of his holy streams, to lave the mounts
Of Paradise. Thou hear'st me; thou dost check
Abrupt thy waters, as the Arab chief
His headlong squadrons. Where the unobserved
Yet toiling Persian breaks the ruining mound,
I see thee gather thy tumultuous strength;
And, through the deep and roaring Nahormalcha,
Roll on, as proudly conscious of fulfilling
The Omnipotent command! While, far away,
The lake that slept but now so calm, nor moved,
Save by the rippling moonshine, heaves on high
Its foaming surface, like a whirlpool-gulf,
And boils and whitens with the unwonted tide.

But silent as thy billows used to flow,
And terrible, the hosts of Elam move,
Winding their darksome way profound, where man
Ne'er trod, nor light e'er shone, nor air from heaven
Breathed. O! ye secret and unfathomed depths,
How are ye now a smooth and royal way
For the army of God's vengeance! Fellow-slaves,
And ministers of the eternal purpose,

Are open

Not guided by the treacherous, injured sons
Of Babylon, but by my mightier arm,
Ye come, and spread your banners, and display

Your glittering arms, as ye advance, all white
Beneath the admiring moon.

Come on! the gates
not for banqueters in blood,
Like you! I see on either side o'erflow
The living deluge of armed men, and cry,
Begin! begin! with fire and sword begin
The work of wrath! Upon my shadowy wings
I pause, and float, a little while, to see
Mine human instruments fulfil


Of final ruin. Then I mount, I fly,
And sing my proud song as I ride the clouds,
That stars may hear, and all the hosts of worlds,
That live along the interminable space,
Take up Jehovah's everlasting triumph !

FELICIA HEMANS. 1793-1835. Felicia Dorothea Browne was born in Liverpool, but passed her childhood amid the wild mountainous scenery of Wales, where she imbibed that love of nature which is seen in all her works. Before she was thirteen



age, a volume of her poems was published. At the age of ninetcen, she was married to Captain Hemans; but after living together unhappily for six years, he went to Italy for his health, and they never met again. Mrs. Hemans continued to reside with her mother and sister, in Wales, devoting her time to literature, and the education of her five sons, to whom she was fondly attached. On the death of her mother, she lived some time near Liverpool, but finally went to reside with a brother at Dublin, where her life was closed. Within the last few years of her life, she visited Walter Scott and Wordsworth at their own homes. Her works are too well known to need further remark here.


[Scene between Gonzalez, Elmina and Ximena.}
Elmina. Gonzalez, who must die ?

Gonzalez. They on whose lives a fearful price is set,
But to be paid by treason! Is 't enough ?
Or must I yet seek words?

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Elm. That look saith more! Thou canst not mean

Gon. I do! Why dwells there not
Power in a glance to speak it? — They must die!
They — must their names be told ? --- Our sons must die,
Unless I yield the city!

Ximena. O! look up !
My mother, sink not thus ! — Until the grave
Shut from our sight its victims, there is hope.

Elm. Whose knell was in the breeze ? -
No, no,

not theirs !
Whose was the blessed voice that spoke of hope? -
And there is hope! I will not be subdued
I will not hear a whisper of despair!
For nature is all-powerful, and her breath
Moves like a quickening spirit o'er the depths
Within a father's heart. Thou, too, Gonzalez,
Wilt tell me there is hope !

Gon. Hope but in Him
Who bade the patriarch lay his fair young son
Bound on the shrine, for sacrifice, and when
The bright steel quivered in the father's hand,
Just raised to strike, sent forth his awful voice,
Through the still clouds, and on the breathless air,
Commanding to withhold ! - Earth has no hope;


; It rests with Him.

Elm. Thou canst not tell me this!
Thou father of my sons, within whose hands
Doth lie thy children's fate!

Gon. If there have been
Men in whose bosoms Nature's voice hath made
Its accents as the solitary sound
Of an o'erpowering torrent, silencing
The austere and yet Divine remonstrances
Whispered by faith and honor, lift thy hands,
And to that Heaven which arms the brave with strength
Pray, that the father of thy sons may ne'er
Be thus found wanting!


Elm. Then their doom is sealed! Thou wilt not save thy children!

Gon. Hast thou cause, Wife of my youth! to deem it lies within The bounds of possible things, that I should link My name to that word — traitor ? They that sleep On their proud battle-fields, thy sires and mine, Died not for this!

Elm. O, cold and hard of heart! Thou shouldst be born for empire, since thy soul Thus lightly from all human bonds can free Its haughty flight! - Men! men! too much is yours Of vantage, ye that with a sound, a breath, A shadow, thus can fill the desolate space Of rooted up affections, o'er whose void Our young hearts must wither! So it is Dominion must be won! Nay, leave me not My heart is bursting, and I must be heard ! Heaven hath given power to mortal agony, As to the elements in their hour of might, And mastery o'er creation! Who shall dare To mock that fearful strength ? I must be heard ! Give me my sons !

Gon. That they may live to hide, With covering hands, the indignant flush of shame On their young brows, when men shall speak of him They called their father! — Was the oath, whereby, On the altar of my faith, I bound myself, With an unswerving spirit to maintain This free and Christian city for my God, And for my king, a writing traced in sand, That passionate tears should wash it from the earth, Or e'en the life-drops of a bleeding heart Efface it, as a billow sweeps away The last light vesel's wake ?

Then never more Let man's deep vows be trusted! — though enforced By all the appeals of high remembrances, And silent claims o' the sepulchres wherein

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