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And as Time's car incessant runs,
I want a warm and faithful friend,
And that my friendship prove as strong
For him as his for me.
His autograph upon this page.
And o'er the waves of time be bounding.
Though thousands as obscure as I, Cling to his skirts, he still will fly And leap to immortality.
If by his name I write my own, He'll take me where I am not known, The cold salute will meet my ear, "Pray, stranger, how did you come here?"
A KING lived long ago,
In the morning of the world, When Earth was nigher Heaven than now:
And the King's locks curled Disparting o'er a forehead full As the milk-white space 'twixt horn and horn
Of some sacrificial bull.
Only calm as a babe new-born: For he was got to a sleepy mood,
So safe from all decrepitude, Age with its bane so sure gone by, (The gods so loved him while he dreamed,)
That, having lived thus long, there seemed
No need the King should ever die.
Among the rocks his city was; Before his palace, in the sun, He sat to see his people pass,
And judge them every one From its threshold of smooth stone
I saw their thousand years of snow On high, their wide long lake below,
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; I heard the torrents leap and gush O'er channelled rock and broken bush;
I saw the white-walled distant town, And whiter sails go skimming down; And then there was a little isle, Which in my very face did smile, The only one in view;
A small green isle, it seemed no more,
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor,
But in it there were three tall trees, And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, And by it there were waters flowing, And on it there were young flowers growing,
Of gentle breath and hue.
The eagle rode the rising blast;
And I felt troubled,-and would fain
THE Convent-bells are ringing,
The song for the dead below,
Or the living, who shortly shall be so!
For a departing being's soul
He is near his mortal goal;
And the headsman with his bare arm ready,
That the blow may be both swift and steady,
Feels if the axe be sharp and true-
To see the son fall by the doom of the father.
It is a lovely hour as yet
He bends to hear his accents bless
He died, as erring man should die,
FROM THE SIEGE OF CORINTH.
THE night is past, and shines the
As if that morn were a jocund
Lightly and brightly breaks
The morning from her mantle gray,
And the moon will look on a sultry day.
Hark to the trump, and the drum,
And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn,
And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne,
And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum,
And the clash, and the shout, "They come, they come!"
The horse-tails are plucked from the ground, and the sword From its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the word.
ENTRANCE OF BOLINGBROKE INTO LONDON.
Duchess. My lord, you told me you would tell the rest, When weeping made you break the story off,
Of our two cousins coming into London. York. - Where did I leave? Duch. At that sad stop, my lord, Where rude misgoverned hands, from windows' tops,
Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head,
York. Then as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed, Which his aspiring rider seemed to know,
With slow but stately pace, kept on his course,
While all tongues cried, "God save thee, Bolingbroke!”
You would have thought the very windows spake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage, and that all the walls,
With painted imagery, had said at