Under his spurning feet, the road

Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed,

And the landscape sped away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind;

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,
Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire.
But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire;

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the General saw were the groups

Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops;

What was done? what to do? a glance told him both.
Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath,

He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas,

And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because

The sight of the master compelled it to pause

With foam and with dust the black charger was gray;

By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play

He seemed to the whole great army to say,

"I have brought you Sheridan all the way
From Winchester down, to save the day."

Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan ! -
Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man!
And when their statues are placed on high,
Under the dome of the Union sky,
The American soldiers' Temple of Fame,
There with the glorious General's name
Be it said, in letters both bold and bright:
"Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight,

From Winchester-twenty miles away!"

THE MADDENING BOWL.

OH! take the maddening bowl away,
Remove the poisonous cup!
My soul is sick-its burning ray
Hath drunk my spirit up:
Take-take it from my loathing lip,
Ere madness fires my brain;
Take-take it hence, nor let me sip
Its liquid death again!

Oh! dash it on the thirsty earth,
For I will drink no more;

It cannot cheer the heart with mirth
That grief hath wounded sore;
For serpents wreathe its sparkling brim,
And adders lurk below;

It hath no soothing charm for him
Who sinks oppressed with woe.

Then, hence! away, thou deadly foe,-
I scorn thy base control.
Away, away! I fear thy blow,

Thou palsy of the soul!

Henceforth I drink no more of thee,

Thou bane of Adam's race;

But to a heavenly fountain flee,
And drink the dews of grace.

SHYLOCK TO ANTONIO.-SHAKSPEARE.

SIGNIOR Antonio, many a time and oft
In the Rialto you have rated me

About my moneys, and my usances:
Still have I borne it with a patient shrug,
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe:

You call me,-misbeliever, cut-throat, dog,
And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine,
And all for use of that which is mine own.
Well then, it now appears, you need my help;
Go, to, then you come to me, and you say,
Shylock, we would have moneys; You say so;
You, that did void your rheum upon my beard,
And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur
Over your threshold; moneys is your suit.
What should I say to you? Should I not say,
Hath a dog money? is it possible

A cur can lend three thousand ducats? or
Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key,

With 'bated breath, and whispering humbleness
Say this?

Fair sir, you spat on me on Wednesday last;
You spurned me such a day; another time
You called me-dog; and for these courtesies
I'll lend thus much moneys.
you

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.-LONGfellow.

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,

Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise !

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies ;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught !

Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

THE RAVEN.-POE.

ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore! While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door, "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;

Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;-vainly I had tried to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore

Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me- -filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before, So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber doorSome late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,