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Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
to misery all he had—a tear;

He gave

He gained from heaven-'twas all he wished—a friend.

No further seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode ;
There they alike in trembling hope repose,

The bosom of his Father and his God.

23. THE DYING GLADIATOR.

LORD BYRON.

[See page 205.]

THE seal is set.-Now welcome, thou dread power!
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here
Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour,
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear;
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear,
That we become a part of what has been,
And grow unto the spot, all seeing but unseen.

And here the buzz of eager nations ran

In murmur'd pity, or loud roar'd applause, As man was slaughter'd by his fellow man.

And wherefore slaughter'd? wherefore, but because Such were the bloody circus' genial laws,

And the imperial pleasure-Wherefore not? What matters where we fall to fill the maws Of worms-on battle plains or listed spot? Both are but theatres where chief actors rot.

I see before me the Gladiator lie:

He leans upon his hand-his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony;

And his droop'd head sinks gradually low; And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,

Like the first of a thunder shower; and now

The arena swims around him-he is gone,

Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won

He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes

Were with his heart, and that was far away;

He reck'd not of the life he lost, nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay-

Lady Clare.

There were his young barbarians all at play;
There was their Dacian mother-he their sire,
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday :

All this rush'd with his blood.-Shall he expire,
And unavenged?-Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!

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It was the time when lilies blow,
And clouds are highest up in air,
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe
To give to his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn:
Lovers long-betrothed were they:
They two will wed the morrow morn;
God's blessing on the day!

"He does not love me for my birth,
Nor for my lands so broad and fair;
He loves me for my own true worth,
And that is well," said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice, the nurse,

Said, "Who was this that went from thee ?"
"It was my cousin," said Lady Clare,
"To-morrow he weds with me."

"Oh! God be thanked!" said Alice, the nurse,
"That all comes round so just and fair:
Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands,

And you are not the Lady Clare."

"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?"
Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild ?"
"As God's above," said Alice, the nurse,
"I speak the truth: you are my child.

"The old Earl's daughter died at my breast-
I speak the truth as I live by bread!
I buried her like my own sweet child,
And put my child in her stead."

"Falsely, falsely have you done,

Oh! mother," she said, "if this be true,
To keep the best man under the sun
So many years from his due."

"Nay, now, my child," said Alice, the nurse, "But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife."

"If I'm a beggar born," she said,

"I will speak out, for I dare not lie; Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by."

"Nay, now, my child," said Alice, the nurse, "But keep the secret all ye can."

She said, "Not so: but I will know
If there be any faith in man."

"Nay, now, what faith ?" said Alice, the nurse,

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"The man will cleave unto his right."

"And he shall have it," the lady replied,

"Though I should die to-night."

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"Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear,
My mother dear, if this be so,
And lay your hand upon my head,
And bless me, mother, ere I go."

She clad herself in a russet gown,
She was no longer Lady Clare:
She went by dale, and she went by down,
With a single rose in her hair.

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought
Leapt up from where she lay,

Dropt her head in the maiden's hand,
And followed her all the way.

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower:
"Oh! Lady Clare, you shame your worth!
Why come you drest like a village maid,
That are the flower of the earth ?"

"If I come drest like a village maid,
I am but as my fortunes are:

I am a beggar born," she said, "And not the Lady Clare."

"Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, "For I am yours in word and deed. Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, "Your riddle is hard to read."

The Wreck of the Hesperus.

Oh! and proudly stood she up!

Her heart within her did not fail! She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes,

And told him all her nurse's tale.

He laughed a laugh of merry scorn;

He turned and kissed her where she stood: "If you are not the heiress born,

And I," said he, "the next in blood

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25.-THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. H. W. LONGFELLOW.

[See page 173.]

It was the schooner Hesperus
That sailed the wintry sea;

And the skipper had taken his little daughter
To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,

Her cheeks like the dawn of day,

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm,

His pipe was in his mouth,

And he watched how the veering flaw did blow,

The smoke now west, now south.

Then up and spake an old sailor

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Had sailed the Spanish Main—
I pray thee put into yonder port,
For I fear a hurricane.

"Last night the moon had a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see !"

The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind,
A gale from the north-east;
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.

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Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;

She shuddered and paused like a frightened steed,
Then leapt her cable's length.

"Come hither-come hither, my little daughter, And do not tremble so;

For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow."

He wrapped her in his seaman's coat,
Against the stinging blast;

He cut a rope from a broken spar,

And bound her to the mast.

"Oh! father! I hear the church-bells ringOh! say, what may it be ?

""Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" And he steered for the open sea.

"Oh! father! I hear the sound of guns; Oh! say, what may it be ?"

"Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!"

"Oh! father! I see a gleaming light;
Oh! say, what may it be ?"

But the father answered never a word-
A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands, and prayed That saved she might be;

And she thought of Christ who stilled the wave
On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever the fitful gust between
A sound came from the land;

It was the sound of the trampling surf
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows:
She drifted a dreary wreck;

And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.

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