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THE HORSE.

SURVEY the warlike horse! didst thou invest
With thunder his robust distended chest?
No sense of fear his dauntless soul allays ;
'Tis dreadful to behold his nostrils blaze ;
To paw the vale he proudly takes delight,
And triumphs in the fulness of his might;
High raised he snuffs the battle from afar,
And burns to plunge amid the raging war;
And mocks at death, and throws his foam around,
And in a storm of fury shakes the ground.
How doth his firm, his rising heart advance,
Full on the brandish'd sword and shaken lance;
While his fixed eye-balls meet the dazzling shield,
Gaze, and return the lightning of the field.
He sinks the sense of pain in generous pride,
Nor feels the shaft that trembles in his side

e; But neighs to the shrill trumpet's dreadful blast Till death; and when he groans, he groans his last.

YOUNG.

SELF-KNOWLEDGE.

ز

IF thou be one whose heart the holy forms
Of young imagination have kept pure,
Stranger ! henceforth be warn’d; and know that pride,
Howe'er disguised in its own majesty,
Is littleness; that he who feels contempt
For any living thing, hath faculties
Which he has never used ; that thought with him
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye
Is ever on himself doth look on one,
The least of nature's works-one who might move
The wise man to that scorn which wisdomı holds
Unlawful ever. O! be wiser, thou !
Instructed that true knowledge leads to love-
True dignity abides with him alone
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,
Can still suspect, and still revere himself,
In lowliness of heart.

WORDSWORTII.

THE VILLAGE PREACHER.

NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year ;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place;
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for pow'r,
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn’d to prize,
More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise.-
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ;
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claim allow'd ;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learn’d to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

THE VILLAGE PREACHER.

175

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side ;
But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all ;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismay'd,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn’d the venerable place ;
Truth from his lips prevaild with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Even children follow'd, with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressd,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distress'd ;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm ;
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head !

GOLDSMITH,

THE SPIRIT OF WAR.

HARK ! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?
Saw

ye

not whom the reeking sabre smote ; Nor saved

your brethren ere they sank beneath
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ? The fires of death,
The bale-fires flash on high ;—from rock to rock
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe ;

Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.

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Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun,
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon. .
Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon
Flashing afar--and at his iron feet
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done ;

For on this morn three potent nations meet,
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems niost sweet.

BYRON.

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