For some vile petty theft, some paltry scudi

And, whilst the fiery war-horse chafed and reared,
Shaking his crest, and plunging to get free,

There, midst the dangerous coil unmoved, she stood, 5 Pleading in broken words and piercing shrieks,

And hoarse, low, shivering sobs, the very cry

Of nature! And, when I at last said no,

And those poor innocent babes between the stones
10 And my hot Arab's hoofs. We saved them all.
Thank heaven, we saved them all! but I said no
To that sad woman, midst her shrieks. Ye dare not
Ask me for mercy now.

CXXIX. THE PASSIONS.

COLLINS.

[WILLIAM COLLINS was born in Chichester, England, December 25, 1720, and died June 12, 1756. He was a man of sensitive nature and melancholy temperament. His last years were clouded with disease and insanity. Ilis poetical genius was of a high order, and many of his smaller poems are distinguished by imaginative splendor, an ethereal tone of sentiment, and subtle beauty of language. His "Ode to the Passions" is a very popular poem, and deservedly so, for nothing can surpass its picturesque energy, brilliant descriptions, and vivid coloring.]

WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,

While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined:
Till once, 't is said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,

From the supporting myrtles round,

* Scudi is the plural of scudo, a silver coin nearly equivalent to a dollar.

They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each-for madness ruled the hour-
Would prove his own expressive power.

2 First, Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewildered laid: And back recoiled, he knew not why,

E'en at the sound himself had made.

3 Next, Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings owned his secret stings;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.

4 With woful measures, wan Despair

Low, sullen sounds!- his grief beguiled,
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.

5 But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She called on Echo still through all the song:
And where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair.

close;

6 And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose:

He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down;
And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast so loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe;
And, ever and anon, he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat:

And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity, at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.

7 Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed; Sad proof of thy distressful state!

Of differing themes the veering song was mixed;

And, now it courted Love; now, raving, called on Hate.

8 With eyes upraised, as one inspired,

Pale Melancholy sat retired;

And, from her wild, sequestered seat,

In notes, by distance made more sweet,

Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
And, dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels joined the sound:

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole
Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay

(Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace, and lonely musing,)

In hollow murmurs died away.

9 But, O! how altered was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung!.
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known!

The oak-crowned Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen,
Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,

And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.

10 Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:

He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed:
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
Amid the festal-sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing:
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:
(Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound),
And he, amid his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.

NICOLAI KARAMSIN, a Russian historian and man of letters, was born in 1765, and died in 1826. His writings are numerous both in prose and verse, but his principal work, which was received with great favor by his countrymen, was a "History of Russia," in twelve volumes.

FIRST VOICE.

1 How frightful the grave! how deserted and drear!

With the howls of the storm-wind the creaks of the bier
And the white bones all clattering together!

SECOND VOICE.

2 How peaceful the grave! its quiet how deep: Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep, And flowerets perfume it with ether.

FIRST VOICE.

3 There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead, And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed, And snakes in its nettle weeds hiss.

SECOND VOICE.

4 How lovely, how sweet the repose of the tomb: No tempests are there: - but the nightingales come, And sing their sweet chorus of bliss.

FIRST VOICE.

5 The ravens of night flap their wings o'er the grave: 'Tis the vulture's abode; 't is the wolf's dreary cave, Where they tear up the earth with their fangs.

SECOND VOICE.

6 There the cony at evening disports with his love, Or rests on the sod; while the turtles above, Repose on the bough that o'erhangs.

FIRST VOICE.

7 There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath, And loathsome decay fill the dwelling of death; The trees are all barren and bare!

SECOND VOICE.

8 O, soft are the breezes that play round the tomb, And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume, With lies and jessamine fair.