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Is the sable warrior fled ?
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
The swarm, that in the noontide beam were borne,
Gone to salute the rising morn.
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes ;
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; 2
Regardless of the sleeping whirlwind's sway,
That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening

prey.

“Fill high the sparkling bowl,
The rich repast prepare ;
Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast .
Close by the regal chair
Fell thirst and famine scowl
A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.3
Heard

ye

the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse ? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their

way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, 5

4

1 Edward, the Black Prince, dead some time before his father.

2 Magnificence of Richard the Second's reign.

3 Richard the Second, as we are told by all the older writers, was starved to death.

4 Ruinous civil wars of York and Lancaster. 5 Henry the Sixth, George, Duke of Clarence, Edward the Fifth, Richard, Duke of York, &c., believed to be murdered secretly in the Tower of London. The oldest part of that structure is attributed to Julius Cæsar.

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Revere his consort's 1 faith, his father's 2 fame,
And spare the meek usurper's holy head ! 3
Above, below, the rose of snow
Twined with her blushing foe 4 we spread :
The bristled boar5 in infant gore
Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom,
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom !

“ Edward, lo! to sudden fate
(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.)
Half of thy heart we consecrate ! 6
(The web is wove. The work is done.)”

Stay, 0, stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn ! In yon bright track that fires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes ! But, O, what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll ? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.? All hail, ye genuine kings ! Britannia's issue, hail ! 8

· Margaret of Anjou, a woman of heroic spirit, who strug. gled hard to save her husband and her crown.

Henry the Fifth. 3 Henry the Sixth, Very near being canonized. The line of Lancaster had no right of inheritance to the crown.

· The white and red roses, devices of York and Lancaster,

5 The silver boar was the badge of Richard the Third ; whence he was usually known in his own time by the name of the Boar.

6 Eleanor of Castile died a few years after the conquest of Wales.

? It was the common belief of the Welsh nation that king Arthur was still alive in Fairy-land, and would return again to reign over Britain.

8 Both Medin and Taliessin had prophesied that the Welsh should regain the sovereignty of this island; which seemed to be accomplished in the House of Tudor.

“ Girt with many a baron bold, Sublime their stony fronts they rear ; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old, In bearded majesty appear. In the midst a form divine !1 Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line ; Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, Attempered sweet to virgin grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air ! What strains of vocal transport round her play! Hear from the grave, great Taliessin,2 hear! They breathe a soul to animate thy clay ; Bright rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colored

wings. “ The verse adorn again, Fierce war, and faithful love, And truth severe, by fairy fiction dressed. In buskined measures 3 move Pale grief, and pleasing pain, With honor, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice,4 as of the cherub-choir, Gales from blooming Eden bear ; And distant warblings 5 lessen on my ear, That lost in long futurity expire. Fond, impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray.

i Queen Elizabeth.

Taliessin, chief of the bards, flourished in the sixth century. His works are still preserved, and his memory held in high veneration among his countrymen.

Shakspeare. A Milton. 5 The succession of poets after Milton's time.

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Enough for me: with joy I see
The different doom our fates assign.
Be thine despair, and sceptred care;
To triumph and to die are mine.”
He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

SLEEP. - Miss Barrett.

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar,
Along the Psalmist's music deep, —
Now tell me if that any is
For gift or grace surpassing this, -
“ He giveth his beloved sleep”?

What would we give to our beloved ?
The hero's heart, to be unmoved,
The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep,
The senate's shout to patriot vows,
The monarch's crown, to light the brows?
“ He giveth his beloved sleep!”

What do we give to our beloved ?
A little faith, all undisproved, -
A little dust to overweep,
And bitter memories, to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake!
“He giveth his beloved sleep!”

“ Sleep soft, beloved !” we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away

Sad dreams, that through the eyelids creep.
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber, when
“He giveth his beloved sleep!”

O earth, so full of dreary noises !
O men, with wailing in your voic is !
O delved gold, the wailer's heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall !
God makes a silence through you all,
And“ giveth his beloved sleep!”

His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still ;
Though on its slope men toil and reap,
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
“He giveth his beloved sleep."

Yea, men may wonder, while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man
In such a rest his heart to keep ;
But angels say, - and through the word
I ween their blessed smile is heard,
“ He giveth his beloved sleep!”

art, that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show, That sees through tears the juggler's leap, Would now its weary vision close, Would, childlike, on his love repose, “ Who giveth his beloved sleep!” And friends !- dear friends !- when it shall

For me, my

be
That this low breath is

gone
from

me,

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