waves foam like the surges of Ocean. Then he drops on his knees, and he raises his arms to Jupiter, Strength-and-Help giver "O, stem the fierce force of this river! The hours are advancing-noon wanes-in the west soon Apollo will sinkand my zeal and my best aspirations and hopes will be baffled—and Damon, my Damon, will die on a scaffold!"

But the tempest abates not, the rapid flood waits not; on, billow o'er billow comes hasting; day, minute by miuute, is wasting—and, daring the worst that the desperate dare, he casts himself in with a noble despair, and he buffets the tyrannous waves; and Jupiter pities the struggler-and saves. The hours will not linger: his speed is redoubled—“ Forth, faithfullest! bravest, exert thee! The gods cannot surely desert thee!" Alas! as Hope springs in his bosom renewed, a band of barbarians rush out of the wood, and they block up the wanderer's path, and they brandish their weapons in clamorous wrath. "What will ye?" he cries; "I have nought but my life, and that must be yielded ere night: force me not to defend it by fight!" But they swarm round him closer, that truculent band: so he wrests the huge club from one savage's hand, and he fells the first four at his feet; and the remnant, dismayed and astounded, retreat.

The storm-burst is over-low glows the red sun, making earth and air fainter and hotter; the knees of the fugitive totter-"Alas!" he cries, "have I then breasted the flood, have I vanquished those wild men of rapine and blood, but to perish from languor and pain; while my hostage, my friend, is my victim in vain?" When, hark! a cool sound, as of murmuring water! he hears it-it bubbles-it gushes;-hark! louder and louder it rushes! he turns him, he searches, and lo! a pure stream ripples forth from a rock, and shines out in the beam of the sun ere he fireily sinks; and the wanderer bathes his hot limbs and he drinks.

The sun looks his last!-On the oft-trodden pathway hies homeward the weariful reaper; the shadows of evening grow deeper, when, pressing and hurrying anxiously on, two strangers pass Pythias-and list! he hears one to the other exclaiming, "O shame on the wretch that betrayed the magnanimous Damon!" Then Horror lends wings to his faltering feet, and he dashes in agony onward; and soon a few roofs, looking sunward, gleam faintly where Syracuse' suburbs extend; and the good Philodemus, his freedman and friend, now comes forward in tears to his master, who gathers despair from that face of disaster. "Back, Master! Preserve thine

own life at the least! His, I fear me, thou canst not redeem, for the last rays of eventide beam: O! though hour after hour travelled on to its goal, he expected thy coming with confident soul; and, though mocked by the king as forsaken, his trust in thy truth to the last was unshaken!" "Eternal Avenger! and is it too late?" cried the youth with a passionate fervour; "and dare not I be his preserver? Then Death shall unite whom not Hell shall divide!— -we will die, he and I, on the rood, side by side; and the bloody Destroyer shall find that there be souls whom friendship and honour can bind!"

And on, on, unresting, he bounds like a roe:-see! they lay the long cross on the ground! See! the multitude gather all round! See! already they hurry their victim along! When, with giant-like strength, a man bursts through the throng, and-"Oh stay, stay your hands!" is his cry;-"I am come!— I am here!—I am ready to die!" And astonishment masters the crowd at the sight, while the friends in the arms of each other weep tears that they struggle to smother. Embarrassed, the lictors and officers bring the strange tidings at length to the ears of the king; and a human emotion steals o'er him, and he orders the Friends to be summoned before him. And. admiring, he looks at them long ere he speaks:-"You have conquered, O marvellous pair, by a friendship as glorious as rare! You have melted to flesh the hard heart in my breast! go in peace!-you are free! But accord one request to my earnest entreaties and wishes-accept a third friend in your king, Dionysius.”

XXXVII. THE LEGEND OF HORATIUS.-Macaulay.

MEANWHILE the Tuscan army, right glorious to behold, came flashing back the noonday light, rank behind rank, like surges bright of a broad sea of gold. Four hundred trumpets sounded a peal of warlike glee; as that great host, with measured tread, and spears advanced, and ensigns spread, rolled slowly towards the bridge's head, where stood the dauntless Three. The Three stood calm and silent, and looked upon the foes, and a great shout of laughter from all the vanguard rose: and forth three chiefs came spurring before that mighty mass; to earth they sprang, their swords they drew, and lifted high their shields, and flew to win the narrow pass.

But all Etruria's noblest felt their hearts sink to see on the earth the bloody corpses, in the path the dauntless Three: and, from the ghastly entrance where those bold Romans stood, all

shrank, like boys who unaware, ranging the woods to start a hare, come to the mouth of the dark lair, where, growling low, a fierce old bear lies amidst bones and blood.

Was none who would be foremost to lead such dire attack; but those behiud cried "Forward!" and those before cried "Back!" And backward now and forward wavers the deep array; and, on the tossing sea of steel, to and fro the standards reel; and the victorious trumpet-peal dies fitfully away.

But meanwhile axe and lever have manfully been plied; and now the bridge hangs tottering above the boiling tide. "Come back, come back, Horatius!" loud cried the Fathers all. "Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! back, ere the ruin fall!" Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back: and, as they passed, beneath their feet they felt the timbers crack. But when they turned their faces, and on the farther shore saw brave Horatius stand alone, they would have crossed once more. But with a crash like thunder fell every loosened beam, and, like a dam, the mighty wreck lay right athwart the stream: and a long shout of triumph rose from the walls of Rome, as to the highest turret-tops was splashed the yellow foam. And, like a horse unbroken when first he feels the rein, the furious river struggled hard, and tossed his tawny mane, and burst the curb, and bounded, rejoicing to be free; and whirling down, in fierce career, battlement, and plank, and pier, rushed headlong to the sea.

Alone stood brave Horatius, but constant still in mind; thrice thirty thousand foes before, and the broad flood behind. "Down with him!" cried false Sextus, with a smile on his pale face: "Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, "now yield thee to our grace.' Round turned he, as not deigning those craven ranks to see; nought spake he to Lars Porsena, to Sextus nought spoke he: but he saw on Palatinus the white porch of his home; and he spake to the noble river that rolls by the towers of Rome. Oh, Tiber! father Tiber! to whom the Romans pray; a Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge this day!" So he spake, and speaking sheathed the good sword by his side, and, with his harness on his back, plunged headlong in the tide.

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No sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank; but friends and foes in dumb surprise, with parted lips and straining eyes, stood gazing where he sank; and when above the surges they saw his crest appear, all Rome sent forth a rapturous cry; and even the ranks of Tuscany could scarce

ar to cheer. But fiercely ran the current, swollen high

by months of rain: and fast his blood was flowing, and he was sore in pain, and heavy with his armour, and spent with changing blows: and oft they thought him sinking, but still again he rose. Never, I ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case, struggle through such a raging flood safe to the landing place: but his limbs were borne up bravely by the brave heart within, and our good father Tiber bare bravely up his chin.

"Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; "will not the villain drown? But for this stay, ere close of day we should have sacked the town!" "Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena, "and bring him safe to shore; for such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before." And now he feels the bottom; now on dry earth he stands; now round him throng the Fathers to press his gory hands; and now with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud. he enters through the river-gate, borne by the joyous crowd.

XXXVIII. THE SKYLARK.-Shelley.

HAIL to thee, blithe spirit! bird thou never wert; that, from heaven, or near it, pourest thy full heart in profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher from the earth thou springest, like a cloud of fire; the blue deep thou wingest, and singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightening of the sunken sun, o'er which clouds are brightening, thou dost float and run, like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple Even melts around thy flight; like a star of heaven in the broad daylight, thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. Keen as are the arrows of that silver sphere, whose intense lamp narrows in the white dawn clear, until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air with thy voice is loud; as, when night is bare, from one lonely cloud the moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

What thou art, we know not;-what is most like thee?— From rainbow-clouds there flow not drops so bright to see, as from thy presence showers a rain of melody!-Like a poet hidden in the light of thought, singing hymns unbidden, till the world is wrought to sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. Like a high-born maiden in a palace tower, soothing her love-laden soul in secret hour, with music, sweet as love, which overflows her bower. Like a glow-worm golden in a dell of dew, scattering unbeholden its aërial hue among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view. Like a rose

embowered in its own green leaves, by warm Winds deflowered, till the scent it gives makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers on the twinkling grass, rain-awakened flowers, all that ever was joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass!

Teach us, sprite or bird, what sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard praise of love or wine that panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal, or triumphal chant, matched with thine would be all but an empty vaunta thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.- -What objects are the fountains of thy happy strain? what fields, or waves, or mountains? what shapes of sky or plain? what love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance languor cannot be: shadow of annoyance never came near thee: thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, thou of death must deem things more true and deep than we mortals dream; or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after, and pine for what is not: our sin. cerest laughter with some pain is fraught; our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet, if we could scorn hate, and pride, and fear; if we were things born not to shed a tear; I know not how thy joys we ever should come near. Better than all measures of delightful sound, better than all treasures that in books are found, thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness that thy brain must know; such harmonious madness from my lips would flow, the world should listen then, as I am listening now.

XXXIX.-HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS, ON CONSECRATING PULASKI'S BANNER.-Longfellow.

WHEN the dying flame of day through the chancel shot its ray, far the glimmering tapers shed faint light on the cowlèd head; and the censer burning swung, where before the altar hung that proud banner, which with prayer had been consecrated there. And the Nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while, sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle:

"Take thy banner!-may it wave proudly o'er the good and brave; when the battle's distant wail breaks the Sabbath of our vale,-when the clarion's music thrills to the hearts of these lone hills,-when the spear in conflict shakes, and the strong lance shivering breaks! Take thy banner !—and beneath the war-clouds' encircling wreath guard it-till our