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Ex. 105.

Hannibal's Oath.

And the night was dark and calm;
There was not a breath of air;
The leaves of the grove were still,
As the presence of death was there
Only a moaning sound

Came from the distant sea;

It was as if, life-like,

It had no tranquillity.

A warrior and a child

Passed through the sacred wood,
Which, like a mystery,

Around the temple stood.

The warrior's brow was worn

With the weight of casque and plume;

And sun-burnt was his cheek,

And his eye and brow were gloom.

The child was young and fair,

But the forehead large and high,
And the dark eyes' flashing light
Seemed to feel their destiny.

They entered in the temple,

And stood before the shrine ;
It streamed with the victim's blood,
With incense and with wine.

The ground rocked beneath their feet,
The thunder shook the dome;
But the boy stood firm, and swore

Eternal hate to Rome.

There's a page in history

O'er which tears of blood were wept,

And that page is the record

How that oath of hate was kept.

Mrs. McLean.

Ex. 106.

The Coliseum.

The stars are forth, the moon above the tops
Of the snow-shining mountains.-Beautiful!
I do remember me, that in my youth,
When I was wandering-upon such a night
I stood within the Coliseum's wall,
Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome;

The trees which grew along the broken arches
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars
Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar
The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; and
More near from out the Cæsars' palace came
The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly,
Of distant sentinels the fitful song
Begun and died upon the gentle wind.
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach
Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood
Within a bowshot. Where the Cæsars dwelt
And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst
A grove which springs through levelled battlements,
And twines its roots with the imperial hearths,
Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth;
But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands,
A noble wreck in ruinous perfection!

While Cæsar's chambers, and the Augustan halls,
Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon
All this, and cast a wide and tender light,
Which softened down the hoar austerity

Of rugged desolation, and filled up,
As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries;
Leaving that beautiful which still was so,

And making that which was not, till the place
Became religion, and the heart ran o'er
With silent worship of the great of old !—

The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule
Our spirits from their urns.

Ex. 107.

Pompeii.

Byron.

The shroud of years thrown back, thou didst revive,
Half-raised, half-buried,-dead, yet still alive!
Gathering the world around thee, to admire
Thy disinterment, and with hearts on fire,
To catch the form and fashion of the time
When Pliny lived and thou wert in thy prime;
So strange thy resurrection, it may seem
Less waking life than a distressful dream.

Hushed in this once-gay scene, nor murmurs more
The city's din, the crowd's tumultuous roar,
The laugh convivial, and the chiming sound
Of golden goblets with Falernian crowned;

The mellow breathings of the Lydian flute,
And the sweet drip of fountains, as they shoot
From marble basements-these, all these are mute!
Closed are her springs, unnumbered fathoms deep,-
Her splendid domes are one dismantled heap,
Her temples soiled, her statues in the dust,
Her tarnished medals long devoured by rust;
Its rainbow-pavements broken from the bath,
The once-thronged forum-an untrodden path;
The fanes of love-forgotten cells-the shrines
Of vaunted gods-inurned in sulphur mines;
The abodes of art, of luxury, and taste—
Tombs of their once-glad residents-a waste
O'er which compassionate years have gradual thrown
The trailing vine, and bid the myrtle moan.

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There was a man,

Lyrical Gems.

A Roman soldier, for some daring deed
That trespassed on the laws, in dungeon low
Chained down. His was a noble spirit,-rough,
But generous, and brave, and kind.

He had a son,-'twas a rosy boy,

A little faithful copy of his sire

In face and gesture. In her pangs she died
That gave him birth; and ever since the child
Had been his father's solace and his care.

Every sport

The father shared and heightened; but at length
The rigorous law had grasped him, and condemned
To fetters and to darkness.

The captive's lot

He felt in all its bitterness: the walls

Of his deep dungeon answered many a sigh

And heart-heaved groan. His tale was known, and touched

His jailer with compassion ;-and the boy,

Thenceforth a frequent visitor, beguiled

His father's lingering hours, and brought a balm

With his loved presence that in every wound
Dropt healing. But in this terrific hour

He was a poisoned arrow in the breast

Where he had been a cure.

With earliest morn

Of that first day of darkness and amaze
The iron door was closed-for them

He came.

Never to open more! The day, the night,
Dragged slowly by; nor did they know the fate
Impending o'er the city. Well they heard
The pent-up thunder in the earth beneath,
And felt its giddy rocking; and the air
Grew hot at length, and thick; but in his straw
The boy was sleeping; and the father hoped
The earthquake might pass by; nor would he wake
From his sound rest the unfearing child, nor tell
The dangers of their state. On his low couch
The fettered soldier sank, and with deep awe
Listened the fearful sounds: with upturned eye
To the great gods he breathed a prayer; then strove
To calm himself, and lose in sleep awhile

His useless terrors ;-but he could not sleep;
His body burned with feverish heat; his chains
Clanked loud, although he moved not.
Groaned unimaginable thunders; sounds,
Fearful and ominous, arose and died

Deep in earth

Like the sad moanings of November's wind

In the blank midnight. Deepest horror chilled
His blood that burned before; cold clammy sweats
Came o'er him; then anon a fiery thrill

Shot through his veins. Now on his couch he shrunk,
And shivered as in fear; now upright leaped,

As though he heard the battle trumpet sound,

And longed to cope with death.

A troubled, dreamy sleep.
Never to waken more!
But terrible his agony!

He slept at last
Well-had he slept
His hours are few,

Soon the storm

Burst forth; the lightnings glanced; the air
Shook with the thunder. They awoke-they sprang
Amazed upon their feet. The dungeon glowed
A moment, as in sunshine-and was dark.
Again a flood of white flame fills the cell,
Dying away upon the dazzled eye

In darkening, quivering tints, as stunning sound
Dies throbbing, ringing in the ear. Silence,
And blackest darkness. With intensest awe
The soldier's frame was filled; and many a thought
Of strange foreboding hurried through his mind,
As underneath he felt the fevered earth
Jarring and lifting-and the massive walls

Heard harshly grate and strain. Yet knew he not.

While evils undefined and yet to come,

Glanced through his thoughts, what deep and cureless wound

Fate had already given. Where, man of woe!
Where, wretched father! is thy boy?

Thou callest

Atherstone.

His name in vain-he cannot answer thee!

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When I am dead, no pageant train
Shall waste their sorrows at my bier,
Nor worthless pomp of homage vain
Stain it with hypocritic tear;
For I will die as I did live,
Nor take the boon I cannot give.

Ye shall not raise a marble bust

Upon the spot where I repose;
Ye shall not fawn before my dust,
In hollow circumstance of woes;
Nor sculptured clay, with lying breath,
Insult the clay that moulds beneath.
Ye shall not pile, with servile toil,
Your monuments upon my breast,
Nor yet within the common soil

Lay down the wreck of power to rest;
Where man can boast that he has trod
On him that was 'the scourge of God.'
But ye the mountain stream shall turn,
And lay its secret channel bare,
And hollow, for your sovereign's urn,
A resting-place for ever there :
Then bid its everlasting springs
Flow back upon the king of kings;
And never be the secret said
Until the deep gives up its dead.

My gold and silver ye shall fling

Back to the clods that gave them birth ;-
The captured crowns of many a king,
The ransom of a conquered earth;
For, e'en though dead, will I control
The trophies of the Capitol.

But when, beneath the mountain tide,
Ye've laid your monarch down to rot,
Ye shall not rear upon its side

Pillar or mound to mark the spot :

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