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Fall'n, fall'n, fall’n, fall'n,
Fall’n from his high estate,

And weltring in his blood :
Deserted at his utmost need,
By those his former bounty fed,
On the bare earth expos'd he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.

With downcast look the joyless victor sat,

Revolving in his altered soul
The various turns of fate below;

And now and then a sigh he stole;
And tears began to flow.

The mighty master smild, to see
That love was in the next degree;
'Twas but a kindred sound to move,
For pity melts the mind to love.

Softly sweet in Lydian measures,
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures.
War he sung is toil and trouble;
Honour but an empty bubble;

Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying:

If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O, think it worth enjoying!

Lovely Thais sits beside thee,

Take the good the gods provide thee. The

many rend the skies with loud applause; So love was crown'd, but music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

Gaz'd on the fair,

Who caus'd his care,
And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,

Sigh'd and look’d, and sigh'd again :
At length with love and wine at once oppress’d,
The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.

Now strike the golden lyre again;
A louder yet, and

yet a louder strain.

Break his bands of sleep asunder,
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark, hark, the horrid sound

Has rais'd up his head;

As awak'd from the dead,
And amaz’d, he stares around.
Revenge! revenge ! Timotheus cries,

See the furies arise !
See the snakes that they rear,

How they hiss in their hair !
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes !

Behold a ghastly band,

Each a torch in his hand !
These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain,

And unburied remain
Inglorious on the plain :
Give the vengeance due

To the valiant crew.
Behold how they toss their torches on high,

How they point to the Persian abodes,
And glitt'ring temples of their hostile gods.

The princes applaud, with a furious joy; And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy;

Thais led the way,

To light him to his prey,
And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.

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Thus, long ago,
Ere heaving bellows learn’d to blow,
While organs yet were mute;
Timotheus to his breathing flute

And sounding lyre,
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.

At last divine Cecilia came,

Inventress of the vocal frame;
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,

Enlarged the former narrow bounds,

And added length to solemn sounds, With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before,

Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown;
He rais'd a mortal to the skies;
She drew an angel down.

BACK FROM THE HOLIDAYS.

GEORGE BENNETT.

“To meet at the station, boys, 10.15 train.",
All true to the time we are met once again,

And back from the holidays go ;
No blinking or sighing, 'tis girlish and weak,
See the train coming up, with a puff and a shriek,

Hurrah ! for old Prossodie's, ho!
Now, my boys, cut it short, not so many “Good-byes ;"
They weigh down the spirits, and weaken the eyes,

And only make parting more sad :
I have come up alone, for I knew there was one
Who would weep like a cloud for her own darling son,

And he'd rather feel jolly and glad.
All in, and all right, and away now we glide,
So adieu to sweet home and old Christmas tide,

And to revels that sometimes would tire:
Never grieve for true friends, for from them we ne'er

part,
And wherever we go they are nearest the heart,

To solace, to urge, and inspire.
Back from the holidays: who would revolt ?
What! Jenkinson grumbling! You lubberly dolt,

You pout like a double-tasked dunce:
Why, you've borne a month's petting, and that's quite

enough, Of the rich things of life you have had quantum suff,

So hush! or we'll cut you at once,

Back from the holidays, face it, my boys;
Too much of the sweet ever wearies and cloys,

And palls upon stomach and brain.
While good Dr. Prossodie's system and diet
Are better for study than feasting or riot,

And will tone us down nicely again.
On, onward, by hamlet, and city, and town;
Now upward we gaze, and now we look down

To see what we're hurrying past ;
Now thro' an embankment half hidden from day,
Now high o'er a viaduct whirling away

As swift as the wild northern blast!

Now “God save the Queen.” Ah, that's the right song To keep the steam up as we hasten along:

There, don't be too nice with your parts,
We have nothing to fear if we do get uproarious;
So,—“Send her victorious, happy, and glorious,'

God save the Queen of all hearts !
That's the spirit, my boys, for our Royal mamma,
Three cheers for her now with a hip, hip, hurrah,

Full, hearty, united, and bold;
Now three for the Prince, with the handsome young

Dane, We wish them much joy, tho' we hope they'll not reign

Till many more years they have told. Back from the holidays, back, back to work, There's not one of our form that his duties would shirk,

We're in to do something this half: The age is competitive-nothing for shamSo we'll never depend upon “coaching” and “ cram,"

Or seek either crutches or staff. But now our speed slackens, slower still, and more

slow, Ah! yond's the old town, with the mansion we know,

Where all may improve who've the nous,

There's the station ; your tickets, step out, look alive!
Here's a 'bus takes us all. Do you know where to

drive ?
Dr. Prossodie's, Winchester House !

(Copyright.-Contributed.)

SIR RUPERT THE RED.

EDMUND H. Yates.

(Edmund Hodgson Yates, born about the year 1828, is the son of the late Mr. Yates, the eminent actor, and some time partner with the late Charles Mathews in the lesseeship of the Adelphi Theatre. His mother was the gifted actress so well known to the last generation of play-goers.

Mr. Yates, who holds a situation in the General Post-office, is the present editor of the “ Temple Bar Magazine,” and one of the literary staff of the Star newspaper. After the decease of Mr. Albert Smith, he occupied the Egyptian Hall, in which he gave an entertainment for a few months somewhat after the style of his predecessor; but “entertaining” was evidently not his forte. As a novelist he lias succeeded better; but a propensity to indulge in personalities, interesting only to a literary clique, and which can be of no permanent value, detracts from the general interest of his writings.

His last two works, “ Broken to Harness” and “Running the Gauntlet,” have been read with avidity by the subscribers to circulating libraries, and hold their own among the novels of the day.]

Sir RUPERT THE RED was as gallant a knight
As ever did battle for wrong or for right,
As ever resented the slightest slight,

Or broke an antagonist's head.
Full tall was his stature, full stalwart his frame,
Full red was his hair, his beard was the same,
Mustachios and whiskers—whence his name,

His name of Sir Rupert the Red.
Sir Rupert he lived in a castle old,
Residence meet for a baron bold:

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