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Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,
When the death-angel touches those swift keys ! What loud lament and dismal Miserere
Will mingle with their awful symphonies !
I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,
In long reverberations reach our own.
On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, And loud, amid the universal clamour,
O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.
I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, And Aztec priests upon their teocallis
Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin ;
The tumult of each sacked and burning village ;
mercy The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage ;
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ;
The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of the cannonade.
Is it, О man, with such discordant noises,
With such accursèd instruments as these, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies ?
Were half the power that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals nor forts :
The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!
And every nation, that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
Would wear for evermore thể curse of Cain !
Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, “Peace !”
Peace ! and no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies ! But beautiful as songs of the immortals,
The holy melodies of love arise.
BY LEIGH HUNT.
The royal sage, lord of the Magic Ring,
How he came there, what wanted, who could be,
The stranger seemed (to judge him by his dress)
He wore a cowl, from under which there shone,
The excess of fear and anguish, which had tied
Solomon wished, and the man vanished. Straight Up comes the terror, with his orbs of fate.
“Solomon," with a lofty voice said he, “ How came that man here, wasting time with thee ? I was to fetch him, ere the close of day, From the remotest mountain of Cathay.”
Solomon said, bowing him to the ground, Angel of Death, there will the man be found.”
SAINT PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH.
BY DR. BYROM.
SAINT PHILIP NERI, as old readings say,
St. Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome?
Why, then, for aught I know,
Be it so
Y. Why, cardinal's a high degree-
Why, who can say
St. Well, having worn the mitre and red hat,
Y. Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure,
St. What! must you die ? fond youth! and at the best
Then think of that which may be, and indeed,
BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE.
In the tempest of life when the wave and the gale
should grow dim, and thy caution depart, “Look aloft,” and be firm, and be fearless of heart. If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow, With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe, Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are arrayed, “Look aloft” to the friendship which never shall fade. Should the vision which hope spreads in light to thine eye, Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret, “Look aloft” to the sun that is never to set.
Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart,
And, oh! when death comes in his terrors, to cast