Full of the magic of exploded science- Than stagnate in our marsh,—or o'er the deep XVI-THE DYING GLADIATOR. I SEE before me the gladiator lie: BYRON. Ere ceas'd the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won. He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes All this rushed with his blood. Shall he expire THE HOUR OF DEATII. 347 XVII-LYCIDAS. A MONODY. YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year: And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled arc So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, MILTON. Through the dear might of him that walked the waves; XVIII-THE HOUR OF DEATH. LEAVES have their time to fall, FELICIA HEMANS. And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set-but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death! Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer— But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee-but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. We know when moons shall wane, When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain— But who shall teach us when to look for thee? Is it when spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth-and thou art there. Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death! THE CLOUD. 349 XIX. THE LOVED DEAD. THE most loved are they, FELICIA HEMANS. Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice Around their steps!-till silently they die, Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled! XX.--THE CLOUD. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers From the seas and the streams, I bear light shade for the leaves when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under ; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below, In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, THOMAS HOOD. XXI.-MARY'S GHOST. Twas in the middle of the night, When Mary's ghost came stealing in, "O William dear! O William dear! My rest eternal ceases; I thought the last of all my cares The body-snatchers they have come, It's very hard them kind of men |