couch of torments with placid vengeance; and each anguished cry gave me stern satisfaction! Now, he's dead, and his lips move not; yet his voice's image flashed such a dreadful darkness o'er my soul, I would not mount Numidia's throne again, did every night bring such a scream as that. Oh, yes! 'twas I who caused that living one, and therefore did its echo seem so frightful!-If 'twere to do again, I would not kill thee: wilt thou not be contented? But thou sayest, "My father was a father to thee also, he watched thy infant years, he gave thee all that youth could ask, and scarcely manhood came than came a kingdom also; yet didst thou"-Oh!-I am faint-they have not brought me food-how did I not perceive it until now? Gods-I'm in tears!--I did not think of weeping. Oh, Marius, wilt thou ever feel like this ?-Ha! I behold the ruins of a city; and, on a craggy fragment, sits a form that seems in ruins also: how unmoved-how stern he looks! Amazement! it is Marius! Ha! Marius! think'st thou now upon Jugurtha? He turns -he's caught my eye!-I see no more!

XC.-MARRIAGE OF KENNEDY AND MATILDA.—Hogg. THOUGH grateful the hope to the death-bed that flies, that lovers and friends o'er our ashes will weep; the soul, when released from her lingering ties, in secret may see if their sorrows are deep. Who wept for the worthy Macdougal? Not one! His darling Matilda, who, two months agone, would have mourned for her father in sorrow extreme, indulged in a painful delectable dream. But why do the matrons, while dressing the dead, sit silent, and look as if something they knew? Why gaze on the features? Why move they the head, and point at the bosom so dappled and blue? Say, was there foul play ?-Then, why sleeps the red thunder? Ah! hold, for suspicion stands silent with wonder. The body's entombed, and the green turf laid over; Matilda is wed to her dark Highland lover.

Yes, the new moon that stooped over green Aberfoyle, and shed her light dews on a father's new grave, beheld, in her wane, the gay wedding turmoil, and iighted the bride to her chamber at eve. Blue, blue was the heaven; and o'er the wide scene, a vapoury silver veil floated serene ;-a fairy perspective, that bore from the eye, wood, mountain, and meadow, in distance to lie. The scene was so still, it was all like a vision; the iamp of the moon seemed as fading for ever: 'twas awfully soft, without shade or elision; and nothing was heard save the rush of the river. But why won't the bride-maidens walk on the lea, nor lovers steal out to the sycamore-tree? Why turn to the hall with those looks of confusion ?-- there's nothing abroad!-'tis a dream!-a delusion i- -But why do the horses snort over their food, and cling to the manger in seeming dismay? what scares the old owlet afar to the wood? why screams the blue heron as hastening away? Say, why is the dog hid so deep in his cover? each window barred up, and the curtain drawn over? each white maiden-bosom still heaving so high, and fixed on another each fearspeaking eye?

'Tis all an illusion; the lamp let us trim; come, rouse thee, old minstrel, to strains of renown; the old cup is empty, fill round to the brim, and drink the young pair ere their wedding day's flown. Ha! why is the cup from the lip ta'en away? Why fixed

every form like a statue of clay? Say, whence is that noise and that terrible clamour! Oh, horror! it comes from young Kennedy's chamber!

'Mid

Oh, haste thee, Strath-Allan, Glen-Ogle, away! these outcries betoken wild horror and woe: the dull ear of midnight is stunned with dismay; Glen-Ogle! Strath-Allan! fly swift as the roe. darkness and death, on eternity's brim, you stood with Macdonald, and Archibald the grim; then why do ye hesitate? Why do you stand with claymore unsheathed, and red taper in hand?

The tumult is o'er: not a murmur nor groan.-What footsteps so madly pace through the saloon? 'Tis Kennedy, naked and ghastly, alone, who hies him away by the light of the moon. All prostrate

and bleeding, Matilda they found, the threshold her pillow, her couch the cold ground; her features distorted, her colour the clay, her feelings, her voice, and her reason away. Ere morn they returned, but how well had they never! they brought with them horror too deep to sustain; returned but to chasten, and vanish for ever, to harrow the bosom and fever the brain. List, list to her tale, youth, levity, beauty;-Oh, sweet is the path of devotion and duty!—When pleasure smiles sweetest, dread danger and death; and think of Matilda, the flower of the Teith.

XCI. THE PALM-TREE. Mrs. Hemans.

Ir waved not through an Eastern sky, beside a fount of Araby; it was not fanned by southern breeze in some green isle of Indian seas, nor did its graceful shadow sleep o'er stream of Afric, long and deep. But fair the exiled Palm-tree grew 'midst foliage of no kindred hue; through the laburnum's dropping gold rose the light shaft of orient mould; and Europe's violets, faintly sweet, purpled the moss-beds at its feet. Strange looked it there!-the willow streamed where silvery waters near it gleamed; the lime-bough lured the honey-bee to murmur by the Desert's tree; and showers of snowy roses made a lustre in its fan-like shade. There came an eve of festal hoursrich music filled that garden's bowers: lamps, that from flowery branches hung, on sparks of dew soft colours flung; and bright forms glanced-a fairy show-under the blossoms to and fro.

But One, a lone one, 'midst the throng, seemed reckless all of dance or song, he was a youth of dusky mien, whereon the Indian sun had seen; of crested brow, and long black hair-a stranger, like the Palmtree, there. And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes, glittering athwart the leafy glooms: he passed the pale-green olives by, nor won the chestnut flowers his eye; but when to that sole Palm he came, there shot a rapture through his frame. To him, to him, its rustling spoke; the silence of his soul it broke! it whispered of his own bright isle, that lit the ocean with a smile; ay, to his ear that native tone had something of the sea-wave's moan! His mother's cabin-home that lay where feathery cocoas fringe the bay, the dashing of his brethren's oar, the conch-note heard along the shore,-all through his wakening bosom swept: he clasped his country's tree, and wept!

Oh! scorn him not!-the strength, whereby the patriot girds himself to die,—the unconquerable power, which fills the freeman battling on his hills, these have one fountain deep and clear-the same whence gushed that child-like tear.

!

XCII. THE DEATH OF SAMSON.-Milton.

THE building was a spacious theatre, half-round, on two main pillars vaulted high, with seats, where all the lords, and each degree of sort might sit in order to behold. The other side was open, where the throng on banks and scaffolds under sky might stand.

The feast and noise grew high; and sacrifice had filled their hearts with mirth, high cheer, and wine, when to their sports they turned. Immediately was Samson as a public servant brought, in their state livery clad: before him pipes and timbrels; on each side went armed guarde, both horse and foot; before him and behind, archers and slingers, cataphracts and spears. At sight of him. the people with a shout rifted the air, clamouring their god with praise, who made their dreadful enemy their thrall.

He, patient, but undaunted, where they led him, came to the place; and what was set before him, which without help of eye might be assayed, to heave, pull, draw, or break, he still performed. all with incredible stupendous force; none daring to appear antagonist. At length, for intermission's sake, they led him between the pillars; he his guide requested, as over-tired, to let him lean awhile with both his arms on those two massy pillars, that to the arched roof gave main support. He, unsuspicious, led him; which, when Samson felt in his arms, with head awhile inclined, and eyes fast-fixed, he stood, as one who prayed, or some great matter in his mind revolved; at last, with head erect, thus cried aloud: Hitherto, lords, what your commands imposed I have performed, as reason was obeying, not without wonder or delight beheld: now, of my own accord, such other trial I mean to show you of my strength, yet greater, as with amaze shall strike ail who behold!"

This uttered, straining all his nerves, he bowed: as with the force of winds and waters pent, when mountains tremble, those two massy pillars with horrible convulsion to and fro he tugged, he shook, till down they came, and drew the whole roof after them with burst of thunder, upon the heads of all who sat beneath; lords, ladies, captains, counsellors, or priests their choice nobility and flower, met from all parts, to solemnise this feast. Samson, with these immixed, inevitably pulled down the same destruction on himself!

XCIII.-LOVE (A TALE).—Coleridge.

ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, whatever stirs this mortal frame, are all but ministers of Love, and feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I live o'er again that happy hour, when midway on the mount I lay, beside the ruined tower. The moonshine stealing o'er the scene, had blended with the light of eve; and she was there, my hope, my joy, my own dear Genevieve! She leaned against the armed man, the statue of the armed knight: she stood and listened to my lay, amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own, my hope, my joy, my Genevieve! she loves me best when'er I sing the songs that make her grieve.—I played a soft and doleful air; I sang an old and moving story-an old rude song, that suited well that ruin, wild and hoary. She listened with a flitting blush, with downcast eyes and modest grace; for well she knew, I could not choose but gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore upon his shield a burning brand

and that for ten long years he wooed the Lady of the land. I told her how he pined and ah! the deep, the low, the pleading tone, with which I sang another's love, interpreted my own. She listened with a flitting blush, with downcast eyes and modest grace; and she forgave me that I gazed too fondly on her face.

But when I told the cruel scorn, that crazed the bold and lovely Knight; and that he crossed the mountain-woods, nor rested day nor night; that sometimes from the savage den, and sometimes from the darksome shade, and sometimes starting up at once in green and sunny glade, there came and looked him in the face an Angel beautiful and bright, and that he knew it was a Fiend, this miserable knight !-and that, unknowing what he did, he leaped amid a murderous band, and saved from outrage worse than death, the Lady of the land!-and how she wept and clasped his knees, and how she tended him in vain, and ever strove to expiate the scorn that crazed his brain; and that she nursed him in a cave; and how his madness went away, when on the yellow forest-leaves, a dying man he lay; his dying words.- -But when I reached that tenderest strain of all the ditty, my faltering voice and pausing harp disturbed her soul with pity.

All impulses of soul and sense, had thrilled my guileless Genevieve: the music, and the doleful tale, the rich and balmy eve: and hopes, and fears that kindle hope, an undistinguishable throng; and gentle wishes long subdued-subdued and cherished long. She wept with pity and delight, she blushed with love and virgin shame; and, like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved --she stept aside, -as conscious of my look she stept-then suddenly, with timorous eye, she fled to me and wept. She half enclosed me with her arms; she pressed me with a meek embrace; and bending back her head, looked up, and gazed upon my face. 'Twas partly love-'twas partly fear-and partly 'twas a bashful art, that I might rather feel than see the swelling of her heart. I calmed her fears; and she was calm, and told her love with virgin pride;-and so I won my Genevieve, my bright and beauteous bride!

XCIV. THE SWORD-CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI.—Motherwell.

'Tis not the gray hawk's flight o'er mountain and mere; 'tis not the fleet hound's course tracking the deer; 'tis not the light hoof-print of black steed or gray, though sweltering it gallop a long summer's day, which mete forth the lordships I challenge as mine;-Ha! ha! 'tis the good brand I clutch in my strong hand, that can their broad marches and numbers define. LAND GIVER! I kiss thee.- -Dull builders of houses, base tillers of earth, gaping, ask me what lordships I owned at my birth? but the pale fools wax mute when I point with my sword, east, west, north, and south, shouting, "There am I lord!"-Wold and waste, town and tower, hill, valley, and stream, trembling, _bow to my sway in the fierce battle-fray, when the star that rules Fate, is this Falchion's red gleam. MIGHT GIVER! I kiss thee,- -I've heard great harps sounding in brave bower and hall, I've drank the sweet music that bright lips let fall, I've hunted in greenwood, and heard small birds sing; but away with this idle and cold jargoning!-the music I love is the shout of the brave, the yell of the dying, the scream of the flying, when this arm wields Death's sickle, and garners the grave. JOY GIVER! I kiss thee.—Far isles

of the ocean thy lightning hath known, and wide o'er the mainland thy horrors have shone. Great sword of my father, stern joy of his hand! thou hast carved his name deep on the stranger's red strand, and won him the glory of undying song. Keen cleaver of gay crests, sharp piercer of broad breasts, grim slayer of heroes, and scourge of the strong! FAME GIVER! I kiss thee.In a love more abiding than that the heart knows, for maiden more lovely than summer's first rose; my heart's knit to thine, and lives but for thee; in dreamings of gladness thou'rt dancing, with me, brave measures of madness in some battle-field,-where armour is ringing, and noble blood springing, and cloven, yawn helmet, stout hauberk and shield. DEATH GIVER! I kiss thee.- -The smile of a maiden's eye soon may depart, and light is the faith of fair woman's heart; changeful as light clouds, and wayward as wind, be the passions that govern weak woman's mind. But thy metal's as true as its polish is bright: when ills wax in number, thy love will not slumber; but, starlike, burns fiercer, the darker the night. HEART GLADDENER! I kiss thee.--My kindred have perished by war or by wave-now, childless and sireless, I long for the grave. When the path of our glory is shadowed in death, with me thou wilt slumber below the brown heath: thou wilt rest on my bosom, and with it decay-while harps shall be ringing, and Scalds shall be singing the deeds we have done in our old fearless day. SONG GIVER! I kiss thee.

XCV.-THE BATTLE OF ALBUERA.-Byron.

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 tyrant's 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!- -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 fixed, 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 most sweet.

By Jove! it is a splendid sight to see-for one who hath no friend nor brother there-their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery, their various arms that glitter in the air! What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, and gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey! All join the chace, but few the triumph share; the Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away-and Havoc, scarce for joy, can number their array!-Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; three tongues prefer strange orisons on high; three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies; the shouts are "France"-" Spain "—“ Albion ”- Victory!" The foe, the victim, and the fond ally, that fights for all, but ever fights in vain, are met as if at home they could not die-to feed the crow on Talavera's plain, and fertilise the field that each pretends to gain.

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There shall they rot-Ambition's honoured fools! Yes-Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay! Vain sophistry! in these behold the tools, the broken tools,-that tyrants cast away by myriads,