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'Shivering! Hark! he mutters Brokenly now that was a difficult breath Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death ?

Look! how his temple flutters ! Is his heart still ? Aha! lift up his head ! He shudders-gasps-Jove, help him !--so-he's dead.”

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How like a mounting devil in the heart
Rules the unreined ambition! Let it once
But play the monarch, and its haughty brow
Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought
And unthrones peace for ever. Putting on
The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns
The heart to ashes, and with not a spring
Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip,
We look upon our splendour and forget
The thirst of which we perish! Yet hath life
Many a falser idol. There are hopes
Promising well ; and love touched dreams for some :
And passions, many a wild one; and fair schemes
For gold and pleasure— yet will only this
Balk not the soul — Ambition only, gives,
Even of bitterness, a beaker full !
Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream,
Troubled at best — Love is a lamp unseen,
Burning to waste, or, if its light is found,
Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken –
Gain is a grovelling care, and Folly tires,
And quiet is a hunger never fed —
And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain,
Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose-
From all but keen Ambition will the soul
Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness
To wander like a restless child away.
Oh, if there were not better hopes than these
Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame -
If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart

Must canker in its coffers -- if the links
Falsehood hath broken will unite no more —
If the deep-yearning love, that hath not found
Its like in the cold world, must waste in tears -
If truth, and fervour, and devotedness,
Finding no worthy altar, must return
And die of their own fulness — if beyond
The grave there is no heaven in whose wide air
The spirit may find room, and in the love
Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart
May spend itself — what thrice-mocked fools are we !

THE ORPHAN BOY.

BY MRS. OPIE.

STAY, Lady, stay for mercy's sake,

And hear a helpless orphan's tale !
Ah, sure my looks must pity wake,

'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale.
Yet I was once a mother's pride,

And my brave father's hope and joy ;
But in the Nile's proud fight he died,

And I am now an Orphan Boy.
Poor foolish child! how pleased was I,

When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,

And see the lighted windows flame !
To force me home my mother sought;

She could not bear to see my joy,
For with my father's life 'twas bought,

And made me a poor Orphan Boy.

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The people's shouts were long and loud ;

My mother, shuddering, closed her ears : Rejoice! rejoice !” still cried the crowd ;

My mother answered with her tears. “Why are you crying thus,” said I,

“While others laugh and shout with joy ?" She kissed me, and with such a sigh,

She called me her poor Orphan Boy.

“What is an orphan boy ?" I cried,

As in her face I looked, and smiled ;
My mother through her tears replied,

“You'll know too soon, ill-fated child !” And now they've tolled my mother's knell,

And I'm no more a parent's joy ;
O lady-I have learnt too well

What 'tis to be an Orphan Boy.

Oh! were I by your bounty fed —

Nay, gentle lady, do not chide ;
Trust me,

I mean to earn my bread;
The sailor's orphan boy has pride.
Lady, you weep!- Ha !—this to me ?

You'll give me clothing, food, employ?
Look down, dear parents ! look and see

Your happy, happy Orphan Boy.

THE FALCON'S REWARD.

BY TRENCH.

BENEATH the fiery cope of middle day

The youthful Prince his train left all behind, With eager ken gazed round him every way,

If springing well he anywhere might find.

His favourite falcon, from long aëry flight

Returning, and from quarry struck at last, Told of the chase, which with its keen delight

Had thus allured him on so far and fast,

Till gladly he had welcomed in his drought

The dullest pool that gathered in the rain ; But such, in fount of clearer wave, he sought

Long through that land of barrenness in vain.

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What pleasure when, slow stealing o'er a rock,

He spied the glittering of a little rill, Which yet, as if his burning thirst to mock,

Did its rare treasures drop by drop distil ! A golden goblet from his saddle-bow

He loosed, and from his steed alighted down To wait until that fountain, trickling slow,

Shall in the end his golden goblet crown.

When set beside the promise of that draught,

How poor had seemed to him the costliest wine, That ever with its beaded bubbles laughed,

When set beside that nectar more divine.

The brimming vessel to his lips at last

He raised, when, lo! the falcon on his hand, With beak’s and pinion's sudden impulse, cast

That cup's rare treasure all upon the sand.

Long was it ere that fountain, pulsing slow,

Caused once again that chalice to run o'er ; When, thinking no like hindrance now to know,

He raised it to his parched lips once more :

Once more, as if to cross his purpose bent,

The watchful bird—as if on this one thing, That drink he should not of that stream, intent

Struck from his hand the cup with eager wing.

But when this new defeat his purpose found,

Swift penalty this time the bird must pay:
Hurled down with

angry
force
upon

the ground, Before her master's feet in death she lay:

And he, twice baffled, did meantime again

From that scant rill to slake his thirst prepare ; When, down the crags descending, of his train

One cried, “O Monarch, for thy life forbear !

“ Coiled in these waters at their fountain-head,

And causing them so feebly to distil,
A poisonous snake of hugest growth lies dead,

And doth with venom all the streamlet fill."

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Dropped from his hand the cup :-one look he cast

Upon the faithful bird before his feet, Whose dying struggles now were almost past,

For whom a better guardian had been meet ; Then homeward rode in silence many a mile;

But if such thoughts did in his bosom grow, As did in mine the painfulness beguile,

Of that his falcon's end, what man can know?

I said, “Such chalices the world fills up

For us, and bright and without bale they seemA sparkling potion in a jewelled cup,

Nor know we drawn from what infected stream.

“Our spirit's thirst they promise to assuage,

And we those cups unto our death had quaffed, If Heaven did not in dearest love engage

To dash the chalice down, and mar the draught.

Alas for us, if we that love are fain

With wrath and blind impatience to repay, Which nothing but our weakness doth restrain,

As he repaid his faithful bird that day;

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