Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city: Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed; for her presence Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowers dropped from her fingers! Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish, That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man ; Then he beheld, in a dream, once more, the home of his childhood; Green, Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow, As in the days of her youth, Evangeline arose in his vision. Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, Vanished the vision away--but Evangeline knelt by his bedside! Vainly he strove to whisper her name; for the accents, unuttered, Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken. Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him, Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness, As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. All was ended now-the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow; All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing; And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, L.-BETTER THAN GOLD. MRS. J. M. WINTON. B ETTER than grandeur, better than gold, than rank and title a thousand fold, Is a healthy body, a mind at ease, and simple pleasures that always please; A heart that can feel for a neighbor's woe and share his joys with a genial glow, With sympathies large enough to enfold all men as brothers,--is better than gold. Better than gold is a conscience clear, though toiling for bread in a humble sphere: Doubly blest with content and health, untried by the lust of cares of wealth. Lowly living and lofty thought adorn and ennoble a poor man's cot; For man and morals, or nature's plan, are the genuine test of a gentleman. Better than gold is the sweet repose of the sons of toil when there labors close; Better than gold is the poor man's sleep, and the balm that drops on his slumbers deep. Bring sleeping draughts to the downy bed, where luxury pillows his aching head; His simpler opiate labor deems a shorter road to the land of dreams. Better than gold is a thinking mind that in the realm of books can find Better than gold is a peaceful home, where all the fireside charities come ;-- LI. THE DYING GLADIATOR. BYRON. Y! here the buzz of eager nations ran, In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause, As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man And wherefore slaughtered? Wherefore? but because And the imperial pleasure :—wherefore not?— Of worms, -on battle-plain, or listed spot? Both are but theatres, where the chief actors rot. He leans upon his hand; his manly brow Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes LII. THE BATTLE. BYRON. 'er Corinth shines the glowing sun, As if the morn was a jocund one. Brightly breaks the night away To light the Moslems to the fray. Hark! to the trump, and the drum, And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, Strike your tents, and throng the van; Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, That the fugitive may flee in vain. When the culverin's signal is fired, then on; Leave not in Corinth a living one; A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. God and the prophet !—Alla Hu! Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to scale, And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye fail? He who first downs with the red cross may crave, His heart's dearest wish, let him ask it and have!" Full against the wall they went, In firmness the Christians stood-and fell Heap'd by the host of the infidel, Hand to hand, and foot to foot; Till, at length, outbreath'd and worn, But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun, That splash in the blood of the slippery street! But here and there, where 'vantage ground Touch'd, with the torch, the train— Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, The turban'd victors, the Christian band, All that living or dead remain, Hurled on high, with the shiver'd fane, The shatter'd town, the walls thrown down, As if an earthquake pass'd. The thousand shapeless things, all driven Up to the sky like rockets go, Little deem'd she such a day And mounted nearer to the sun, : The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun :- LIII. SCENE AFTER THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. BYRON. LP wandered on, along the beach, AL Till within the range of a carbine's reach Of the leaguered wall; but they saw him not, Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts waxed cold? As his measured step on the stone below Clanked, as he paced it to and fro: And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall Hold o'er the dead their carnival, Gorging and growling o'er the carcass and limb; They were to busy to bark at him! From a Tartar's skull they had stripped the flesh, As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ; And their white tusks crunched o'er the whiter skull, As it slipped through their jaws when their edge grew dull, As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed; So well had they broken a lingering fast With those who had fallen for that night's repast. And Alp knew, by the turbans that rolled on the sand, The foremost of these were the best of his band. The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, The hair was tangled round his jaw. |