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Behold, where he flies on his desolate path!
Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my

sightRise! rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! 'Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd on the

moors ; Culloden is lost, and my country deplores; But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish’d, forlorn, Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and

torn ? Ah no! for a darker departure is near ; The war drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; His death-bell is tolling: oh! mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims; Accurs'd be the faggots, that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat With the smoke of its ashes to poison the galeLochiel. Down, ruthless insulter! I trust not the

tale. For never shall Albin a destiny meet So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. Tho' my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their

gore Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of AN OLD MAN'S COMFORTS.


(Southey.) “You are old, Father William," the young man cried,

“The few locks which are left you are grey ; You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man: Now tell me the reason, I pray."

Ι In the days of my youth,” Father William replied,

"I remembered that youth would fly fast; And abused not my health nor my vigour at first,

That I never might need them at last.” “You are old, Father William," the young man cried,

“And pleasures with you pass away, And yet you lament not the days that are gone :

Now tell me the reason, I pray.” “In the days of my youth,” Father William replied,

“I remembered that youth could not last; I thought of the future, whatever I did,

That I never might grieve for the past.” “You are old, Father William,"the young man cried,

“ And life must be hastening away ; You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death : Now tell me the reason, I

pray.” I am cheerful, young man,”Father William replied,

“Let the cause thy attention engage : In the days of my youth I remembered my God,

And He has not forgotten my age.”


OTHELLO. ACT II. SCENE II. "O that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains ! That we should with joy, revel, pleasure, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts.”

MERCY. MERCHANT OF VENICE. ACT IV. SCENE I. The quality of mercy is not strained; It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed ; It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes. 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown : His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this sceptred sway ; It is enthroned in the hearts of kings; It is an attribute to God himself ; And earthly power doth then show likest God's, When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this, That in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy.


TO A SKYLARK.—(Shelley.)
Hail to thee, blithe spirit !

Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven or near it,

Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher,

From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire ;

The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever,


In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun,
O’er which clouds are brightening,

Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven,

In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.

Keen as are the arrows

Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,
As when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is over-


What thou art we know not;

What is most like thee ?
From rainbow clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought
Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.

Like a high-born maiden

In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden

Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her

Like a glow-worm golden

In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden

Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it

from the view.
Like a rose embowered

In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,

Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-

winged thieves.
Sound of vernal showers

On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,

All that ever was
Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine ;
I have never heard

Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal,

Or triumphal chant,
Matched with thine would be all

But an empty vaunt-
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

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