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I saw him once before ; he rode
Upon a coal-black steed, And tens of thousands throng'd the road,
And bade their warrior speed. His helm, his breastplate, were of gold, And graved with many dint, that told
Of many a soldier's deed ; The sun shone on his sparkling mail, And danced his snow-plume on the gale.
But now he stood chained and alone,
The headsman by his side, The plume, the helm, the charger gone ;
The sword, which had defied
Came from that lip of pride ;
He bent beneath the headsman's stroke
With an uncover'd eye;
Who throng'd to see him die.
A nation's funeral cry, Rome's wail above her only son, Her patriot and her latest one.
EXTRACTS FROM THE IMPROVISATRICE.
FAREWELL, my lute !-and would that I
Had never waked thy burning chords ! Poison has been upon thy sigh,
And fever has breathed in thy words.
Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame
Thy power, thy spell, my gentlest lute? I should have been the wretch I am,
Had every chord of thine been mute.
It was my evil star above,
Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong ; It was not song that taught me love,
But it was love that taught me song.
He spoke not when the others spoke,
His heart was all too full for praise ;
Which sank beneath their burning gaze.
Heard nothing, save one low-breathed sigh.
In music, but unconsciously;
Crimsoned my cheek ; I felt warm tears
Consciousness, without hopes or fears,
Of a new power within me waking,
I loved him as young Genius loves,
When its own wild and radiant heaven Of starry thought burns with the light,
The love, the life, by passion given. I loved him, too, as woman loves
Reckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn : Life had no evil destiny
That, with him, I could not have borne ! I had been purst in palaces ;
Yet earth had not a spot so drear,
In Paradise, had he been near !
In tears, in bondage, by his side,
This world had power to give beside !
I had sprung
My heart was withered, and my heart
Had ever been the world to me:
My poisoned shaft of suffering.
REV. GEORGE CRABBE.
PHEBE DAWSON. Two summers since, I saw, at Lammas Fair, The sweetest flower that ever blossom'd there, When Phæbe Dawson gaily cross'd the Green, In haste to see and happy to be seen : Her air, her manners, all who saw, admired ; Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired ; The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd, And ease of heart her every look convey'd ; A native skill her simple robes express’d, As with untutor'd elegance she dress’d;
The lads around admired so fair a sight,
made : Yet now, would Phæbe her consent afford, Her slave alone, again he'd mount the board ; With her should years of growing love be spent, And growing wealth :-she sigh'd and look'd
consent. Now, through the lane, up hill, and 'cross the
green, (Seen by but few, and blushing to be seen Déjected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid,) Led by the lover, walk'd the silent maid : Slow through the meadows roved they, many a mile Toy'd by each bank and trifled at each stile ;