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The death-bell thrice was heard to ring,
An aërial voice was heard to call; And thrice the raven flapped his wing
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.
The mastiff howled at village door,
The oaks were shattered on the green ; Woe was the hour, for never more
That hapless Countess e'er was seen.
And in that manor, now no more
Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball ; For ever since that dreary hour
Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.
The village maids with fearful glance,
Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall ; Nor ever lead the merry dance
Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.
Full many a traveller oft hath sighed,
And pensive wept the Countess' fall; As wandering onward they've espied
The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.
THE MIDNIGHT REVIEW.
(From the French of MERY and BARTHELEMY.)
Ar midnight, from his grave,
The drummer woke and rose,
Forth on his round he goes.
Stirred by his faithful arms,
The drumsticks patly fall, He beats the loud retreat,
Reveillé and roll-call.
So grandly rolls that drum,
So deep it echoes round! Old soldiers in their graves,
Start to life at the sound.
Both they in farthest North,
Stiff in the ice that lay, And who too warm repose,
Beneath Italian clay ;
Below the mud of Nile,
And 'neath Arabian sand; Their burial-place they quit,
And soon to arms they stand.
And at midnight, from his grave,
The trumpeter arose ; And mounted on his horse,
A loud shrill blast he blows.
On aëry coursers then,
The cavalry are seen,
Gory and gashed, I ween.
Smile grim, and proud their air, As in their iron hands,
Their long sharp swords they bear. And at midnight from his tomb
The Chief awoke, and rose ; And followed by his staff,
With slow steps on he goes.
A little hat he wears,
A coat quite plain has he,
At his left side hangs free.
O’er the vast plain, the moon
A solemn lustre threw;
The troops goes to review.
The ranks present their arms,
Deep roll the drums the while ; Recovering then—the troops
Before the chief defile.
Marshals and generals round
In circle formed appear :
Then whispers in his ear.
The word goes down the ranks
Resounds along the Seine ; That word they give, is-France,
The answer-Saint-Hélène :
'Tis there, at midnight hour,
The Grand Review, they say,
In the Champs-Elysées.
PLATO AND HIS PUPIL.
A GRECIAN youth of talents rare,
Had formed for virtue's nobler view,
At length, quite vain, he needs must show
Amazement seized the circling crowd ; The youths with emulation glowed ; E’en bearded sages hailed the boy, And all, but Plato, gazed with joy. For he, deep-judging sage, beheld With pain the triumph of the field ; And when the charioteer drew nigh, And flushed with hope had caught his eye
“ Alas ! unhappy youth !” he cried,
Expect no praise from me,” and sighed : “ With indignation I survey Such skill and judgment thrown away. The time profusely squandered there On vulgar arts beneath thy care, If well employed at less expense, Had taught thee honour, virtue, sense ; And raised thee from a coachman's fate, To govern men, and guide the state.”
CAIN ON THE SEA-SHORE.
(From the German of STOLBERG.)
WoE is me! oh where, oh where
E'en to earth's remotest verge
Woe is me! My brother's blood
As the waves beat round the rock,