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Inherit towards the children all the pride

THE PATRIARCHAL HOME And scorn his mother had towards our mother :

Joseph. Still I am patient, tho' you 're Wherefore he suffers in our just rebuke.


Yet to speak out my mind, I do avouch PHRAXANOR TO JOSEPH

There is no city feast, nor city show,

The encampment of the king and soldiery, Phrar. Oh! ignorant boy, it is the secret Rejoicings, revelries, and victories, hour,

Can equal the remembrance of my home The sun of love doth shine most goodly In visible imagination. fair.

Even as he was I see my father now, Contemptible darkness never yet did dull His

grave and graceful head's benignity The splendor of love's palpitating light. Musing beyond the confines of this world, At love's slight curtains, that are made of His world within with all its mysteries. sighs,

What pompless majesty was in his mien, Though e'er so dark, silence is seen to stand An image of integrity creates, Like to a flower closed in the night ; Pattern of nature, in perfection. Or, like a lovely image drooping down Lo ! in the morning when we issued forth, With its fair bead aslant and finger rais'd, The patriarch surrounded by his sons, And mutely on its shoulder slumbering. Girt round with looks of sweet obedience, Pulses do sound quick music in Love's ear, Each struggling who should honor him the And blended fragrance in his startled breath

most ; Doth hang the hair with drops of magic dew. While from the wrinkles deep of many All outward thoughts, all common circum

years, stance,

Enfurrow'd smiles, like violets in snow, Are buried in the dimple of his smile : Touch'd us with heat and melancholy cold, And the great city like a vision sails Mingling our joy with sorrow for his age : From out the closing doors of the hush'd There were my brothers, habited in skins ; mind.

Ten goodly men, myself, and a sweet youth His heart strikes audibly against his ribs Too young to mix in anything but joy ; As a dove's wing doth freak upon a cage,

And in his hands each led a milk-white Forcing the blood athro' the cramped veins

steer, Faster than dolphins do o'ershoot the tide Hung o'er with roses, garlanded with flowCours'd by the yawning shark. Therefore


Laden with fragrant panniers of green Night-blooming Cereus, and the star-flower boughs sweet,

Of bays and myrtle interleav'd with herbs, The honeysuckle, and the eglantine, Wherein was stor'd our country wine and And the ring'd vinous tree that yields red fruit, wine,

And bread with honey sweeten’d, and dried Together with all intertwining flowers,

figs, Are plants most fit to ramble o'er each And pressed curds, and choicest rarities, other,

Stores of the cheerless season of the year ; And form the bower of all-precious Love, While at our sides the women of our tribe Shrouding the sun with fragrant bloom and With pitchers on their heads, fillid to the leaves

brim From jealous interception of Love's gaze. With wine, and honey, and with smoking This is Love's cabin in the light of day,

milk, But oh! compare it not with the black Made proud the black-ey'd heifers with the night;

swell Delay thou sun, and give me instant night - Of the sweet anthem sung in plenty's praise. Its soft, mysterious, and secret hours ; Thus would we journey to the wilderness, The whitest clouds are pillows to bright And fixing on some peak that did o'erlook stars,

The spacious plains that lay display'd beAh! therefore shroud thine eyes.


I say


way off

Where we could see our cattle, like to specks And cried, ' Bow ye the knee !' - and then In the warm meads, browsing the juicy

aloud grass,

Clarions and trumpets broke forth in the air: There pitch our tent, and feast, and revel After a multitude of men-at-arms, out,

Of priests, of officers, and horsed chiefs, The minutes flying faster than our feet Came the benignant Pharaoh, whose great That vaulted nimbly to the pipe and voice, pride Making fatigue more sweet by appetite. Was buried in his smile. I did but glimpse There stood the graceful Reuben by my His car, for 't was of burnish'd gold. No sire,

eye Piping a ditty, ardent as the sun,

Save that of eagles could confront the blaze And, like him, stealing renovation

That seem'd to burn the air, unless it fell Into the darkest corner of the soul,

Either on sapphire or carbuncle huge And filling it with light. There, women That riveted the weight. This car was group'd,

drawn My sisters and their maids, with ears sub- By twelve jet horses, being four abreast, dued,

And pied in their own foam. Within the With bosoms panting from the eager dance, Against each other lean'd ; as I have seen Sat Pharaoh, whose bare head was girt A graceful tuft of lilies of the vale

around Oppress’d with rain, upon each other bend, By a crown of iron ; and his sable hair, While freshness has stol'n o'er them. Some Like strakey as a mane, fell where it would,

And somewhat hid his glossy sun-brent neck My brothers pitch'd the bar, or plough'd for And carcanet of precious sardonyx. fame,

His jewell’d armlets, weighty as a sword, Each two with their two heifers harness'd Clasp'd his brown naked arms - a crimson fast

robe, Unto the shaft, and labor'd till the sweat Deep edged with silver, and with golden Had crept about them like a sudden thaw.

thread, Anon they tied an eagle to a tree,

Upon a bear-skin kirtle deeply blush'd, And strove at archery ; or with a bear Whose broad resplendent braid and shieldStruggled for strength of limb. These

like clasps were no slaves

Were boss'd with diamonds large, by rubies No villain's sons to rifle passengers.

fir'd, The sports being done, the winners claim'd Like beauty's eye in rage, or roses white the spoil :

Lit by the glowing red. Beside him lay Or hide, or feather, or renowned bow, A bunch of poppied corn ; and at his feet Or spotted cow, or fleet and pamper'd horse. A tamed lion as his footstool crouch'd. And then my father bless'd us, and we sang Cas'd o'er in burnish'd plates I, hors'd, did Our sweet way home again. Oft I have

bear ach'd

A snow-white eagle on a silver shaft, In memory of these so precious hours, From whence great Pharaoh's royal banner And wept upon those keys that were my

stream'd, pride,

An emblem of his might and dignity; And soak'd my pillow thro' the heavy night. And as the minstrelsy burst clanging forth, Alas! God willing, I'll be patient yet.

With shouts that broke like thunder from


The royal bird with kindred pride of power

Flew up the measure of his silken cord, In the royal path And arch'd his cloud-like wings as he would Came maidens rob'd in white, enchain’d in

mount, flowers,

And babble of this glory to the sun. Sweeping the ground with incense-scented Then follow'd Joseph in a silver car, palms :

Drawn by eight horses, white as evening Then came the sweetest voices of the land,

clouds :

His feet were resting upon Pharaoh's sword; | I never did behold a man less proud,
And on his head a crown of drooping corn More dignified or grateful to admire.
Mock'd that of Ceres in high holiday. His honors nothing teas'd him from hime
His robes were simple, but were full of

And he but fill'd his fortunes like a man And (out of love and truth I speak him Who did intend to honor them as much thus)

As they could honor him.


Sir Henry Taplor

he gave

Up to their natural eminence, and none, FROM «PHILIP VAN ARTE. Saving the wise, just, eloquent, were great ; VELDE”

Where power was of God's gift, to whom JOHN OF LAUNOY

Supremacy of merit, the sole means

And broad highway to power, that ever I NEVER look'd that he should live so long.

then He was a man of that unsleeping spirit, Was meritoriously administer'd, He seem'd to live by miracle : his food Whilst all its instruments from first to last, Was glory, which was poison to his mind The tools of state for service high or low, And peril to bis body. He was one Were chosen for their aptness to those ends Of many thousand such that die betimes, Which virtue meditates. To shake the Whose story is a fragment, known to few. ground Then comes the man who has the luck to live, Deep-founded whereupon this structure And he's a prodigy. Compute the chances,

stood, And deem there 's ne'er a one in dangerous Was verily a crime ; a treason it was, times

Conspiracies to batch against this state Who wins the race of glory, but than him And its free innocence. But now, I ask, A thousand men more gloriously endow'd Where is there on God's earth that polity Have fallen upon the course ; a thousand Which it is not, by consequence converse, others

A treason against nature to uphold ? Have had their fortunes founder'd by a Whom may we now call free ? whom great? chance,

whom wise ? Whilst lighter barks push'd past them; to Whom innocent ? the free are only they whom add

Whom power makes free to execute all ills A smaller tally, of the singular few Their hearts imagine ; they alone are great Who, gifted with predominating powers, Whose passions nurse them from their craBear yet a temperate will and keep the peace.

In luxury and lewdness, whom to see The world knows nothing of its greatest Is to despise, whose aspects put to scorn

Their station's eminence ; the wise, they


Who wait obscurely till the bolts of heaven

Shall break upon the land, and give them There was a time, so ancient records tell,

light There were communities, scarce known by Whereby to walk ; the innocent, alas!

Poor innocency lies where four roads meet, In these degenerate days, but once far A stone upon her head, a stake driven fam'd,

through her, Where liberty and justice, hand in hand, For who is innocent that cares to live ? Order'd the common weal; where great The hand of power doth press the very life men grew

Of innocency out! What then remains

dles up



But in the cause of nature to stand forth, And turn this frame of things the right side




For this the hour is come, the sword is

drawn, And tell your masters vainly they resist.


Down lay in a nook my lady's brach,

And said — my feet are sore, I cannot follow with the pack

A hunting of the boar. And though the horn sounds never so clear

With the hounds in loud uproar, Yet I must stop and lie down here,

Because my feet are sore.

TAE tale was this :
The wind, when first he rose and went

abroad Through the waste region, felt himself at

fault, Wanting a voice ; and suddenly to earth Descended with a wafture and a swoop, Where, wandering volatile from kind to

kind, He woo'd the several trees to give him one. First he besought the ash ; the voice she lent Fitfully with a free and lashing change Flung here and there its sad uncertainties : The aspen next; a flutter'd frivolous twit

ter Was her sole tribute : from the willow came, So long as dainty summer dress'd her out, A whispering sweetness, but her winter note Was hissing, dry, and reedy: lastly the pine Did he solicit, and from her he drew A voice so constant, soft, and lowly deep, That there he rested, welcoming in her A mild memorial of the ocean-cave Where he was born.

The huntsman when he heard the same,

What answer did he give ? The dog that 's lame is much to blame,

He is not fit to live.


Quoth tongue of neither maid nor wife

To heart of neither wife nor maid, Lead we not here a jolly life

Betwix the shine and shade ?


Quoth heart of neither maid nor wife

To tongue of neither wife nor maid, Thou wag'st, but I am worn with strife,

And feel like flowers that fade.


Dire rebel though he was, Yet with a noble nature and great gifts Was he endow'd, — courage, discretion,

wit, An equal temper, and an ample soul, Rock-bound and fortified against assaults Of transitory passion, but below Built on a surging subterranean fire That stirr’d and lifted him to high attempts. So prompt and capable, and yet so calm, He nothing lack'd in sovereignty but the

right, Nothing in soldiership except good fortune. Wherefore with honor lay him in his grave, And thereby shall increase of honor come Unto their arms who vanquish'd one so wise, So valiant, so renown'd.

His life was private ; safely led, aloof
From the loud world, — which yet he under-

Largely and wisely, as no worldling could.
For he, by privilege of his nature proof
Against false glitter, from beneath the roof
Of privacy, as from a cave, survey'd
With steadfast eye its flickering light and

shade, And gently judged for evil and for good. But whilst he mix'd not for his own behoof In public strife, his spirit glow'd with zeal Not shorn of action, for the public weal,For truth and justice as its warp and woof, For freedom as its signature and seal. His life, thus sacred from the world, dis

charged From vain ambition and inordinate care, In virtue exercis’d, by reverence rare Lifted, and by humility enlarged, Became a temple and a place of prayer. In latter years he walk'd not singly there ;

For one was with him, ready at all hours
His griefs, his joys, his inmost thoughts to

Who buoyantly his burthens help'd to bear,
And deck'd his altars daily with fresh flow-

Of glutted Avarice, caps toss'd up in

air, Or

pen of journalist with flourish fair ; Bells peal’d, stars, ribbons, and a titular



Lines on the Hon. Edward Ernest Villiers.

These, though his rightful tribute, he can

spare ;
His rightful tribute, not his end or aim,

Or true reward ; for never yet did these
Refresh the soul, or set the heart at



I'm a bird that's free
Of the land and sea,

I wander whither I will ;
But oft on the wing,
I falter and sing,
Oh, fluttering heart, be still,

Be still,
Oh, fluttering heart, be still !
I'm wild as the wind,
But soft and kind,

And wander whither I may ;
The eyebright sighs,
And says with its eyes,
Thou wandering wind, oh stay,

Oh stay,
Thou wandering wind, oh stay !

A Sicilian Summer.

What makes a hero ? — An heroic mind,
Express'd in action, in endurance prov'd.

And if there be preeminence of right,
Deriv'd through pain well suffer'd, to the

Of rank heroic, 't is to bear unmov'd,
Not toil, not risk, not rage of sea

wind, Not the brute fury of barbarians blind, But worse

ingratitude and poisonous darts, Launch'd by the country he had serv'd

and lov'd :
This, with a free, unclouded spirit pure,
This, in the strength of silence to endure,

A dignity to noble deeds imparts
Beyond the gauds and trappings of re-

This is the hero's complement and crown ;
This miss'd, one struggle had been want-

ing still, One glorious triumph of the heroic will,

One self-approval in his heart of hearts.

WHAT makes a hero ? — not success, not

Inebriate merchants, and the loud acclaim

Lord Macaulay

And wherefore doth your rout send forth a THE BATTLE OF NASEBY

joyous shout ?

And whence be the grapes of the wine-press BY OBADIAH - BIND - THEIR - KINGS - IN


Oh ! evil was the root, and bitter was the LINKS-OF-IRON, SERGEANT IN


And crimson was the juice of the vintage

that we trod; Ou! wherefore come ye forth in triumph For we trampled on the throng of the from the north,

haughty and the strong, With your hands, and your feet, and your Who sate in the high places and slew the raiment all red ?

saints of God.

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