With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
We could not laugh nor wail:
Through utter drought all dumb we stood;
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,
And cried, A sail! a sail!

COLERIDGE.

160. HENRY THE FOURTH'S SOLILOQUY ON SLEEP.

HOW many thousands of my poorest subjects
Are at this hour asleep! O gentle Sleep!
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

Why rather, Sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,

And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,
Than in the perfumed chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,

And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody?
O thou dull god! why liest thou with the vile
In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch
A watch-case for a common larum bell?
Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy mast,
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge;
And in the visitation of the winds,

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them

With deafening clamours in the slippery shrouds,
That, with the hurly, Death itself awakes-
Canst thou, O partial Sleep! give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,
And, in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,

Deny it to a king? Then, happy, low lie down!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

SHAKESPEARE.

161.

CHRISTIAN BROTHERHOOD.

No distance breaks the tie of blood;

Brothers are brothers evermore;
Nor wrong, nor wrath of deadliest mood,
That magic may o'erpower:

Oft, ere the common source be known,
The kindred drops will claim their own,
And throbbing pulses silently

Move heart towards heart by sympathy.

So is it with true Christian hearts;
Their mutual share in Jesus' blood
An everlasting bond imparts

Of holiest brotherhood:

Oh! might we all our lineage prove,
Give and forgive, do good and love,
By soft endearments and kind strife
Lightening the load of daily life!

There is much need: for not as yet
Are we in shelter or repose:

The holy house is still beset

With leaguer of stern foes:
Wild thoughts within, bad men without,
All evil spirits round about,
Are banded in unblest device,
To spoil love's earthly paradise.
Then draw we nearer, day by day,
Each to his brethren, all to God;
Let the world take us as she may,
We must not change our road;
Not wondering, though in grief, to find
The martyr's foe still keep her mind;
But fix'd to hold love's banner fast,
And by submission win at last.

KEBLE.

162. SHE DWELT AMIDST THE UNTRODDEN

WAYS.

(HE dwelt amidst the untrodden ways

SHE

Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid, whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone,

Half hidden from the eye!

Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown,-and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be:

But she is in her grave, and oh!

The difference to me!

WORDSWORTH.

163. THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.

WHAT hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells?

Who hollow-sounding and mysterious main! Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells, Bright things which gleam unreck'd of and in vain.Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!

We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, the depths have more!—what wealth untold,
Far down, and shining through their stillness lies!
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,

Won from ten thousand royal Argosies.

Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main!
Earth claims not these again!

Yet more, the depths have mcre!-thy waves have roll'd
Above the cities of a world gone by!

Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old,

Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry !--
Dash o'er them, ocean, in thy scornful play!
Man yields them to decay.

Yet more! the billows and the depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar,

The battle-thunders will not break their rest.-
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave!

Give back the lost and lovely!--those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long!
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown—
But all is not thine own.

To thee the love of woman hath gone down,

Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown;
Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!-
Restore the dead, thou sea!

K

164. THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.

ING FRANCIS was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the court: The nobles fill'd the benches round, the ladies by their side, And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to make his bride:

And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,

Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws ;

They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;

With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled one on another, Till all the pit, with sand and main, was in a thund'rous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air; Said Francis then, "Good gentlemen, we're better here than there!"

De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame,
With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the

same:

She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be: He surely would do desperate things to show his love of me! King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the chance is wondrous fine; I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine!"

She dropp'd her glove to prove his love; then looked on him and smiled;

He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild: The leap was quick; return was quick; he soon regained his place; Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face! "Well done!" cried Francis, "bravely done!" and he rose from where he sat:

“No love,” quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that!”

LEIGH HUNT.