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Fall'n, fall'n, fall’n, fall'n,
And weltring in his blood :
With downcast look the joyless victor sat,
Revolving in his altered soul
And now and then a sigh he stole;
The mighty master smild, to see
Softly sweet in Lydian measures,
Never ending, still beginning,
If the world be worth thy winning,
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee. The
many rend the skies with loud applause; So love was crown'd, but music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gaz'd on the fair,
Who caus'd his care,
Sigh'd and look’d, and sigh'd again :
Now strike the golden lyre again;
yet a louder strain.
Break his bands of sleep asunder,
Has rais'd up his head;
As awak'd from the dead,
See the furies arise !
How they hiss in their hair !
Behold a ghastly band,
Each a torch in his hand !
And unburied remain
To the valiant crew.
How they point to the Persian abodes,
The princes applaud, with a furious joy; And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy;
Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey,
Thus, long ago,
And sounding lyre,
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds, With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before,
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
BACK FROM THE HOLIDAYS.
“To meet at the station, boys, 10.15 train.",
And back from the holidays go ;
Hurrah ! for old Prossodie's, ho!
And only make parting more sad :
And he'd rather feel jolly and glad.
And to revels that sometimes would tire:
To solace, to urge, and inspire.
You pout like a double-tasked dunce:
enough, Of the rich things of life you have had quantum suff,
So hush! or we'll cut you at once,
Back from the holidays, face it, my boys;
And palls upon stomach and brain.
And will tone us down nicely again.
To see what we're hurrying past ;
As swift as the wild northern blast!
Now “God save the Queen.” Ah, that's the right song To keep the steam up as we hasten along:
There, don't be too nice with your parts,
God save the Queen of all hearts !
Full, hearty, united, and bold;
Dane, We wish them much joy, tho' we hope they'll not reign
Till many more years they have told. Back from the holidays, back, back to work, There's not one of our form that his duties would shirk,
We're in to do something this half: The age is competitive-nothing for shamSo we'll never depend upon “coaching” and “ cram,"
Or seek either crutches or staff. But now our speed slackens, slower still, and more
slow, Ah! yond's the old town, with the mansion we know,
Where all may improve who've the nous,
There's the station ; your tickets, step out, look alive!
SIR RUPERT THE RED.
EDMUND H. Yates.
(Edmund Hodgson Yates, born about the year 1828, is the son of the late Mr. Yates, the eminent actor, and some time partner with the late Charles Mathews in the lesseeship of the Adelphi Theatre. His mother was the gifted actress so well known to the last generation of play-goers.
Mr. Yates, who holds a situation in the General Post-office, is the present editor of the “ Temple Bar Magazine,” and one of the literary staff of the Star newspaper. After the decease of Mr. Albert Smith, he occupied the Egyptian Hall, in which he gave an entertainment for a few months somewhat after the style of his predecessor; but “entertaining” was evidently not his forte. As a novelist he lias succeeded better; but a propensity to indulge in personalities, interesting only to a literary clique, and which can be of no permanent value, detracts from the general interest of his writings.
His last two works, “ Broken to Harness” and “Running the Gauntlet,” have been read with avidity by the subscribers to circulating libraries, and hold their own among the novels of the day.]
Sir RUPERT THE RED was as gallant a knight
Or broke an antagonist's head.
His name of Sir Rupert the Red.