O, to the living few, Scorn the black regiment. THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.-By C. B. Southey. TREAD Softly--bow the head; In reverent silence bow; No passing bell doth toll, Is passing now. Stranger! however great, Beneath that beggar's roof, Enter-no guards defend That pavement, damp and cold, No mingling voices sound An infant wail alone; A sob suppressed—again That short, deep gasp, and then The parting groan. Oh! change!-Oh! wondrous change!— Burst are the prison bars This moment there, so low, So agonized, and now Beyond the stars! Oh! change-stupendous change! There lies the soulless clod! The sun eternal breaks The new immortal wakes Wakes with his God! BOMBASTIC DESCRIPTION OF A MIDNIGHT MURDER. "TWAS night! the stars were shrouded in a vail of mist; a clouded canopy o'erhung the world; the vivid lightnings flashed and shook their fiery darts upon the earth; the deeptoned thunder rolled along the vaulted sky; the elements were in wild commotion; the storm-spirit howled in the air; the winds whistled; the hail-stones fell like leaden balls; the huge undulations of the ocean dashed upon the rock-bound shore; and torrents leaped from mountain-tops; when the murderer sprang from his sleepless couch with vengeance on his brow,-murder in his heart,-and the fell instrument of destruction in his hand. The storm increased; the lightnings flashed with brighter glare; the thunder growled with deeper energy; the winds whistled with a wilder fury; the confusion of the hour was congenial to his soul, and the stormy passions which raged in his bosom. He clenched his weapon with a sterner grasp. A demoniac smile gathered on his lip; he grated his teeth; raised his arm; sprang with a yell of triumph upon his victim; and relentlessly killed-a MUSQUITO! SHORT POETICAL EXTRACTS. Он, man, boast not thy "lion heart!" Fail in the deepest hour of need? But, woman's courage! 'tis more deep, To save her little ones that sleep, She bares her bosom to the steel! S. F. STREETER. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean-roll! Stops with the shore;-upon the watery plain BYRON. O, hark! what mean those yells and cries? Now, now, my dungeon grate he shakes! I am not mad-but soon shall be! M. G. LEWIS. Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again! And bid your tenant welcome to his home. J. S. KNOWLES. Hush! 'tis a holy hour! the quiet room Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance through the gloom, And the sweet stillness, down on bright young heads, With all their clustering locks untouched by care, And bowed as flowers are bowed with night in prayer. B. BARTON. The auctioneer, then, in his labor began ; And forty old maidens-some younger, some older- "Oh Men, with Sisters dear! Oh! Men with Mothers and Wives Stitch-stitch-stitch, In poverty, hunger and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, HOOD. And O, when Death comes in terrors, to cast “But I defy him!—let him come !" While from its sheath the ready blade And with the black and heavy plumes There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, Old Rudiger sat-dead! A. G. GREENE. And this, O Spain! is thy return Yon sun that sinketh 'neath the sea, MISS JEWSBURY. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; WOLFE. What's hallowed ground?-"Tis what gives birth And your high priesthood shall make earth CAMPBELL. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. GRAY. Small service is true service while it lasts; Protects the lingering dew-drop from the sun. WORDSWORTH. The gloomiest day hath gleams of light; The darkest wave hath white foam near it; The gloomiest soul is not all gloom; There shines some lingering beam of gladness. So stately her bearing, so proud her array, The main she will traverse, forever and aye. Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast! -Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this hour is her last! THE LETTERS.-By Alfred Tennyson. STILL on the tower stood the vane; A black yew gloomed the stagnant air; I turned and hummed a bitter song That mocked the wholesome human heart; She faintly smiled, she hardly moved; I saw with half-unconscious eye She wore the colors I approved. She took the little ivory chest With half a sigh she turned the key; My gifts when gifts of mine could please; As looks a father on the things Of his dead son, I looked on these. She told me all her friends had said; |