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Down deep in the hollow, from morning till VERSIFIED FROM THOLUCK'S TRANSLATION OUT OF THE night,

Dun shadows glide over the ground,

PERSIAN.

IN heavy sleep the Caliph lay,

Where a watercourse once, as it sparkled with When some one called, "Arise, and pray!" light,

Turned a ruined old mill-wheel around: Long years have passed by since its bed became dry,

And the trees grow so close, scarce a glimpse of the sky

Is seen in the hollow, so dark and so damp, Where the glow-worm at noonday is trimming his lamp,

And hardly a sound from the thicket around, Where the rabbit and squirrel leap over the ground,

Is heard by the toad in his spacious abode
In the innermost heart of that ponderous stone,
By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o'ergrown.

Down deep in that hollow the bees never come,
The shade is too black for a flower;
And jewel-winged birds, with their musical hum,
Never flash in the night of that bower;
But the cold-blooded snake, in the edge of the
brake,

Lies amid the rank grass, half asleep, half awake; And the ashen-white snail, with the slime in its trail,

Moves wearily on like a life's tedious tale, Yet disturbs not the toad in his spacious abode, In the innermost heart of that flinty old stone, By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o'ergrown.

Down deep in a hollow some wiseacres sit, Like a toad in his cell in the stone; Around them in daylight the blind owlets flit, And their creeds are with ivy o'ergrown ;Their streams may go dry, and the wheels cease to ply,

And their glimpses be few of the sun and the sky, Still they hug to their breast every time-hon

ored guest,

The angry Caliph cried, "Who dare
Rebuke his king for slighted prayer?"

Then, from the corner of the room,
A voice cut sharply through the gloom :

"My name is Satan. Rise! obey Mohammed's law; awake, and pray!"

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OUR revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

SHAKESPEARE

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POEMS OF TRAGEDY.

THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE.

[James Graham, Marquis of Montrose, was executed in Edin. burgh, May 21, 1650, for an attempt to overthrow the Commonwealth, and restore Charles II.]

THE morning dawned full darkly,

The rain came flashing down,
And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt
Lit up the gloomy town.

The thunder crashed across the heaven,
The fatal hour was come;
Yet aye broke in, with muffled beat,
The 'larum of the drum.

There was madness on the earth below
And anger in the sky,

And young and old, and rich and poor,
Came forth to see him die.

Ah God! that ghastly gibbet!
How dismal 't is to see
The great tall spectral skeleton,
The ladder and the tree !

Hark! hark! it is the clash of arms,
The bells begin to toll, —

"He is coming! he is coming! God's mercy on his soul!" One last long peal of thunder,

The clouds are cleared away,

And the glorious sun once more looks down Amidst the dazzling day.

"He is coming! he is coming!" Like a bridegroom from his room Came the hero from his prison

To the scaffold and the doom. There was glory on his forehead, There was luster in his eye, And he never walked to battle More proudly than to die.

There was color in his visage,

Though the cheeks of all were wan;

And they marveled as they saw him pass, That great and goodly man!

He mounted up the scaffold,

And he turned him to the crowd;

But they dared not trust the people,
So he might not speak aloud.

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