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"Curst hound! by thee my child's devoured!"
The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side.
Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
No wound had he, nor harm, nor dread;
Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain ?—
Sadly a costly tomb they raise,
And marbles, storied with his praise,
THE THREE FISHERMEN.
Three fishers went sailing away to the West,
Each thought of his home and of those he loved best,
For men must work, and women must weep,
Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
Three corpses lay out on the shining sands,
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hand
For men must work, and women must weep,
And good bye to the bar and its moaning.-K1
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder'd weak and weary,
Then the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain,
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
'Tis the wind, and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when with many a flirt and flutter,
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
Of" Never,-nevermore."-EDGAR POE.
THE POET'S LAST WISH.
"Tis said when Schiller's death drew nigh,
The bones and haunts of human kind.
Then strayed the poet in his dreams,
By Rome and Egypt's ancient graves;
Walked with the Pawnee fierce and stark,
How could he rest? even then he trod
A ray upon his garment shone;
Shone and increased his strong desire
Then-who shall tell how deep, how bright
GENIUS AND ENERGY OF YOUTH.
Almost everything that is great has been done by youth. The greatest captains of ancient and modern times, both conquered Italy at five-and-twenty! Alexander was very young when he overthrew the Persian empire. Don John of Austria won Lepanto at twenty-five. Gaston-de-Foix was only twenty-two when he stood a victor on the plain of Ravenna. Gustavus Adolphus died at thirty-eight. Look at his captains: that wonderful duke of Weimar, only thirty-six when he died; Bamir himself, after all his miracles, died at forty-five; Cortes was little more than thirty when he gazed upon the golden cupolas of Mexico. When Maurice of Saxony died at thirty-two, all Europe acknowledged the loss of the greatest captain and the profoundest statesman of the age. Then there are Nelson, Clive, Bonaparte;-but these are warriors, and perhaps you may think there are greater things than war. Then take the most illustrious achievements of civil polity. Innocent III., one
of the greatest of the popes, was the despot of Christendom at thirty-seven. John de Medici was a cardinal at fifteen, and— Guicciardini tells us-baffled with his statecraft Ferdinand of Arragon himself. John also was pope, as Leo X., at thirty-seven. Luther robbed even him of his richest province at thirty-five. Take Ignatius Loyola and John Wesley; they worked with young brains. Pascel wrote a great work at sixteen, and died at thirtyseven. Was it experience that guided the pencil of Raphael when he painted the palaces of Rome? He died at thirty-seven. Richelieu was Secretary of State at thirty-one. Then there are Bolingbroke and Pitt, both ministers of state before other men leave cricket. Grotius was in great practice at seventeen, and attorney-general at twenty-four. It is needless to multiply instances. The history of heroes is the history of youth.
The longer I live, the more am I certain that the great difference between men,-between the feeble and the powerful, the great and the insignificant,-is energy,-invincible determination,-a purpose once fixed, and then death or victory. That talent can do anything that can be done in this world, and no one can be a man without it.-SIR T. F. BUXTON.
He prayeth well who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.-The Ancient Mariner.
Sweetly a blackbird, perched on a frail spray,
"What's your name? Oh! stop and straight unfold,
Then the blackbird sang,-you never heard
Now so round and rich, now soft and slow,
And thus-while that bonny bird did pour
In the little childish heart below,
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
From the blue, bright eyes.
Down the dell she tripped; and through the glade Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade,
And, from out the tree,
Swung and leaped and frolicked, void of fearWhile bold blackbird piped, that all might hear"Little Bell!"-piped he.
Little Bell sat down amid the fern-
Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun,
Little Bell looked up and down the glade-
Down came squirrel, eager for his fare-
By her snow-white cot, at close of day,
Rose the praying voice to where, unseen
"What good child is this," the angel said,
Low and soft, oh! very low and soft,
"Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' care;Child, thy bed shall be
Folded safe from harm-love, deep and kind, Shall watch around and leave good gifts behind, Little Bell, for thee."
Adapted from T. W