Music arose, with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes

looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell.

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell.

Did ye not hear it? - No; 't was but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street.
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet!
But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier, than before!

Arm! arm! it is it is - the cannon's opening roar !
Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain. He did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well,
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell.
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated. Who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;

While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb,

Or whispering, with white lips-"The foe! They come' They

come!"

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life;

Last eve, in Beauty's circle, proudly gay;
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife
The morn, the marshalling in arms; the day,
Battle's magnificently stern array!

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The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent,
The earth is covered thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover— heaped and pent,
Rider and horse, — friend, — foe, — in one red burial blent!

32. THE DYING GLADIATOR.- Lord Byron.

I SEE before me the Gladiator lie:

He leans upon his hand, his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his drooped head sinks gradually low,
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now
The arena swims around him
he is gone,

Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.

He heard it, but he heeded not: his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He recked not of the life he lost nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
There were his young barbarians all at play,
There was their Dacian mother, - he, their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday,

All this rushed with his blood.-Shall he expire,
And unavenged?- Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire!

33. DEGENERACY OF GREECE. Lord Byron.

THE Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.

The mountains look on Marathon,
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And, musing there an hour alone,

I dreamed that Greece might still be free;
For, standing on the Persian's grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.

A King sat on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;

And ships, by thousands, lay below,

And men and Nations all were his!
He counted them at break of day,
And when the sun set, where were they?

1

And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now—

The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet;
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave-
Think ye he meant them for a slave?
'Tis something, in the dearth of fame,
Though linked among a fettered race,
To feel, at least, a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?

For Greeks, a blush, for Greece, a tear!
Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush? -Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla!

What! silent still? and silent all?

Ah! no:- - the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, "Let one living head,
But one arise,
we come, we come!
'Tis but the living who are dumb.

34. THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.-Lord Byron.

THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host, with their banners, at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host, on the morrow, lay withered and strewn.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,
But through them there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

35. THE TEMPEST STILLED. — Rev. J. Gilborne Lyons.

THE strong winds burst on Judah's sea,
Far pealed the raging billow,
The fires of Heaven flashed wrathfully,
When Jesus pressed his pillow;
The light frail bark was fiercely tossed,
From surge to dark surge leaping,
For sails were torn and oars were lost,
Yet Jesus still lay sleeping.

When o'er that bark the loud waves roared,
And blasts went howling round her,
Those Hebrews roused their wearied Lord,-
"Lord! help us, or we founder!"
He said, "Ye waters, Peace, be still!"
The chafed waves sank reposing,
As wild herds rest on field and hill,
When clear calm days are closing.

And turning to the startled men,
Who watched the surge subsiding,
He spake in mournful accents, then,
These words of righteous chiding:
"O ye, who thus fear wreck and death,
As if by Heaven forsaken,

How is it that ye have no faith,

Or faith so quickly shaken?"

Then, then, those doubters saw with dread
The wondrous scene before them;

Their limbs waxed faint, their boldness fled,
Strange awe stole creeping o'er them:
"This, this," they said, "is Judah's Lord,
For powers divine array him;
Behold! He does but speak the word,
And winds and waves obey him!"

36. EXCELSIOR.-H. W. Longfellow.

THE shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath;

And like a silver clarion rung

The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright:
Above, the spectral glaciers shone ;
And from his lips escaped a groan,
Excelsior!

"Try not the Pass!" the old man said,
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead;
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"
And loud that clarion voice replied,
Excelsior!

"O, stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon
this breast!

A tear stood in his bright blue eye;
But still he answered, with a sigh,
Excelsior!

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!

Beware the awful avalanche!"

This was the peasant's last Good-night;
A voice replied, far up the height,
Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried, through the startled air,
Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping, in his hand of ice,
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

There, in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay;