"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.” How like a mounting devil in the heart The heart to ashes, and with not a spring 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; Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream, And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain, Must canker in its coffers if the links Falsehood hath broken will unite no more If the deep-yearning love, that hath not found Finding no worthy altar, must return And die of their own fulness if beyond The grave there is no heaven in whose wide air Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart THE ORPHAN BOY. BY MRS. OPIE. STAY, Lady, stay for mercy's sake, And my brave father's hope and joy; Poor foolish child! how pleased was I, And see the lighted windows flame! The people's shouts were long and loud; "While others laugh and shout with joy?" "What is an orphan boy?" I cried, As in her face I looked, and smiled; "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 Oh! were I by your bounty fed— 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. What pleasure when, slow stealing o'er a rock, A golden goblet from his saddle-bow He loosed, and from his steed alighted down When set beside the promise of that draught, 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, intentStruck from his hand the cup with eager wing. But when this new defeat his purpose found, And he, twice baffled, did meantime again "Coiled in these waters at their fountain-head, A poisonous snake of hugest growth lies dead, Dropped from his hand the cup :—one look he cast Then homeward rode in silence many a mile; 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 seem A 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; |