A KING lived long ago,

In the morning of the world, When Earth was nigher Heaven than now:

And the King's locks curled Disparting o'er a forehead full As the milk-white space 'twixt horn and horn

Of some sacrificial bull.

Only calm as a babe new-born: For he was got to a sleepy mood,

So safe from all decrepitude, Age with its bane so sure gone by, (The gods so loved him while he dreamed,}

That, having lived thus long, there seemed

No need the King should ever die.

Among the rocks his city was; Before his palace, in the sun, He sat to see his people pass,

And judge them every one From its threshold of smooth stone.

ROBERT BROWNING.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

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 wing 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 nostril all wide,

But through it 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 rockbeating 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 trumpet 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 Gentue, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

BYRON.

I saw their thousand years of snow their wide long lake be

On high, low, And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; I heard the torrents leap and gush O'er channelled rock and broken bush;

I saw the white-walled distant town, And whiter sails go skimming down; And then there was a little isle, Which in my very face did smile, The only one in view;

A small green isle, it seemed no more,

Scarce broader than my dungeon floor,

But in it there were three tall trees, And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, And by it there were waters flowing, And on it there were young flowers growing,

Of gentle breath and hue. The fish swam by the castle-wall, And they seemed joyous each and

all;

The eagle rode the rising blast;
Methought he never flew so fast
As then to me he seemed to fly, -
And then new tears came in my

And the headsman with his bare arm

ready,

That the blow may be both swift and steady,

Feels if the axe be sharp and true-
Since he set its edge anew:
While the crowd in a speechless cir-
cle gather,

To see the son fall by the doom of the father.

It is a lovely hour as yet
Before the summer sun shall set,
And his evening beams are shed
Full on Hugo's fated head,
As, his last confession pouring,
To the monk his doom deploring,
In penitential holiness,

He bends to hear his accents bless
With absolution such as may
Wipe our mortal stains away.

He died, as erring man should die,
Without display, without parade;
Meekly had he bowed and prayed,
As not disdaining priestly aid,
Nor desperate of all hope on high.
BYRON.

Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, Strike your tents, and throng to the van;

Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, That the fugitive may flee in vain, When he breaks from the town; and none escape,

Aged or young, in the Christian shape;

While your fellows on foot, in fiery

mass,

Bloodstain the breach through which they pass.

The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein;

Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane;

White is the foam of their champ on the bit:

The spears are uplifted; the matches are lit;

The cannon are pointed and ready to roar,

And crush the wall they have crum

bled before:

Forms in his phalanx each Janizar; Alp at their head; his right arm is bare,

So is the blade of his scimitar;

The Khan and his pachas are all at

their post:

The vizier himself at the head of the host.

When the culverin's signal is fired, then On!

Leave not in Corinth a living oneA priest at her altars, a chief in her halls,

A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls.

God and the prophet - Alla Hu! Up to the skies with that wild halloo! "There the breach lies for passage,

the ladder to scale;

And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye fail?

He who first downs with the red cross may crave

His heart's dearest wish; let him ask it, and have!" Thus uttered Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier;

The reply was the brandish of sabre

ENTRANCE OF BOLINGBROKE INTO LONDON.

Duchess. My lord, you told me you would tell the rest,

When weeping made you break the story off,

Of our two cousins coming into London.

York. Where did I leave?

Duch. At that sad stop, my lord, Where rude misgoverned hands, from windows' tops,

Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head,

York. Then as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke, Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed, Which his aspiring rider seemed to know,

With slow but stately pace, kept on his course,

While all tongues cried, "God save thee, Bolingbroke!"

You would have thought the very windows spake,

So many greedy looks of young and old

Through casements darted their desiring eyes

Upon his visage, and that all the walls,

With painted imagery, had said at