Know, Mortals, know, ere first ye sprung,
Ere first these orbs in æther hung,

I shone amid the heavenly throng.
These eyes beheld Creation's day,
This voice began the choral lay,

And taught Archangels their triumphant song.
Pleased I surveyed bright Nature's gradual birth,
Saw infant Light with kindling lustre spread,
Soft vernal fragrance clothe the flowering earth,
And Ocean heave on his extended bed;

Saw the tall pine aspiring pierce the sky,
The tawny Lion stalk, the rapid Eagle fly.

Last, Man arose, erect in youthful grace,
Heaven's hallowed image stampt upon his face,

And, as he rose, the high behest was given,
"That I alone of all the host of heaven,

Should reign Protectress of the godlike Youth." Thus the Almighty spake: he spake and called me

Truth.

Sir Walter Raleigh.

Born 1552. Died 1618.

THE SILENT LOVER.

PASSIONS are likened best to floods and streams,
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb;
So when affection yields discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come;
They that are rich in words must needs discover
They are but poor in that which makes a lover.

Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart,
The merit of true passion,

With thinking that he feels no smart

That sues for no compassion.

Since if my plaints were not to approve

The conquest of thy beauty,

It comes not from defect of love,

But fear to exceed my duty.

For not knowing that I sue to serve

A saint of such perfection

As all desire, but none deserve
A place in her affection,

I rather choose to want relief
Than venture the revealing;
Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair disdains the healing.

Silence in love betrays more woe
Than words, though ne'er so witty;
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity.

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, My love for secret passion;

He smarteth most who hides his smart,

And sues for no compassion.

Thomas Penrose.

Born 1743. Died 1779.

THE FIELD OF BATTLE.

FAINTLY brayed the battle's roar

Distant down the hollow wind;

Panting terror fled before,

Wounds and death were left behind.

The war-fiend cursed the sunken day,

That checked his fierce pursuit too soon; While, scarcely lighting to the prey,

Low hung, and lowered the bloody moon.

The field, so late the hero's pride,

Was now with various carnage spread; And floated with a crimson tide,

That drenched the dying and the dead.

O'er the sad scene of dreariest view,
Abandoned all to horrors wild,

With frantic step Maria flew,
Maria, sorrow's early child;

By duty led, for every vein

Was warmed by Hymen's purest flame With Edgar o'er the wint'ry main

She, lovely, faithful wanderer, came,

For well she thought, a friend so dear
In darkest hours might joy impart;
Her warrior, faint with toil, might cheer,
Or soothe her bleeding warrior's smart.

Though looked for long-in chill affright,
(The torrent bursting from her eye)
She heard the signal for the fight-
While her soul trembled in a sigh-

;

She heard, and clasped him to her breast,
Yet scarce could urge the inglorious stay ;
His manly heart the charm confest—
Then broke the charm,—and rushed away.

Too soon in few--but deadly words,
Some flying straggler breathed to tell,
That in the foremost strife of swords
The young, the gallant Edgar fell.

She prest to hear-she caught the tale—
At every sound her blood congealed ;-
With terror bold-with terror pale,
She sprung to search the fatal field.

O'er the sad scene in dire amaze

She went-with courage not her ownOn many a corpse she cast her gaze— And turned her ear to many a groan.

Drear anguish urged her to press

Full many a hand, as wild she mourned ;-Of comfort glad, the drear caress, The damp, chill, dying hand returned.

Her ghastly hope was well nigh fled—
When late pale Edgar's form she found,
Half-buried with the hostile dead,

And gored with many a grisly wound.