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The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent
The earth is covered thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover heaped and pent,
Rider and horse, - friend, - foe, -in one red burial blent!

32. THE DYING GLADIATOR. -Lord Byron.

I SEE before me the Gladiator lie:

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He leans upon his hand, his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his drooped head sinks gradually low,
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now
The arena swims around him
he is gone,

Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.

He heard it, but he heeded not: his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He recked not of the life he lost nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
There were his young barbarians all at play,
There was their Dacian mother, — he, their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday,

All this rushed with his blood. - Shall he expire, And unavenged?- Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire!

33. DEGENERACY OF GREECE.- Lord Byron.
THE Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.

The mountains look on Marathon,

And Marathon looks on the sea;
And, musing there an hour alone,

I dreamed that Greece might still be free;
For, standing on the Persian's grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.

A King sat on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,

And men and Nations- all were his!
He counted them at break of day, -
And when the sun set, where were they?

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The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet;
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave
Think ye he meant them for a slave?
'Tis something, in the dearth of fame,
Though linked among a fettered race,
To feel, at least, a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face.
For what is left the poet here?

For Greeks, a blush, for Greece, a tear!
Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush? Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla!

What! silent still? and silent all?

Ah! no:- - the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, "Let one living head,
But one arise,
we come, we come!"
'Tis but the living who are dumb.

34. THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. -Lord Byron.

THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host, with their banners, at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host, on the morrow, lay withered and strewn.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,
But through them there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

35. THE TEMPEST STILLED.— Rev. J. Gilborne Lyons.

THE strong winds burst on Judah's sea,
Far pealed the raging billow,

The fires of Heaven flashed wrathfully,
When Jesus pressed his pillow;
The light frail bark was fiercely tossed,
From surge to dark surge leaping,
For sails were torn and oars were lost,
Yet Jesus still lay sleeping.

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When o'er that bark the loud waves roared,
And blasts went howling round her,
Those Hebrews roused their wearied Lord, -
"Lord! help us, or we founder!"
He said, "Ye waters, Peace, be still!
The chafed waves sank reposing,
As wild herds rest on field and hill,
When clear calm days are closing.
And turning to the startled men,
Who watched the surge subsiding,
He spake in mournful accents, then,
These words of righteous chiding:
"O ye, who thus fear wreck and death,
As if by Heaven forsaken,

How is it that ye have no faith,

Or faith so quickly shaken?"

Then, then, those doubters saw with dread
The wondrous scene before them;
Their limbs waxed faint, their boldness fled,
Strange awe stole creeping o'er them:
"This, this," they said, "is Judah's Lord,
For powers divine array him;
Behold! He does but speak the word,
And winds and waves obey him!"

36. EXCELSIOR.-H. W. Longfellow.

THE shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath;

And like a silver clarion rung

The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright
Above, the spectral glaciers shone ;
And from his lips escaped a groan,
Excelsior!

Try not the Pass!" the old man said, "Dark lowers the tempest overhead; The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" And loud that clarion voice replied,

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Excelsior!

O, stay," the maiden said "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye;
But still he answered, with a sigh,
Excelsior!

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!
Beware the awful avalanche!"
This was the peasant's last Good-night;
A voice replied, far up the height,
Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,

A voice cried, through the startled air,
Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping, in his hand of ice,
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

There, in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay;

And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
Excelsior!

37. TO THE RAINBOW.-Thomas Campbell.

TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky
When storms prepare to part,

I ask not proud philosophy

To teach me what thou art:

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,
A midway station given,

For happy spirits to alight,

Betwixt the earth and Heaven.

Can all that optics teach unfold
Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?

When Science from Creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.

When, o'er the green, undeluged earth,
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang
On earth delivered from the deep,
And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam;
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme!

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