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Shivering! Hark! he mutters
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
Finding no worthy altar, must return
And die of their own fulness
The grave there is no heaven in whose wide air
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 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;
O lady—I have learnt too well
Oh! were I by your bounty fed—
THE FALCON'S REWARD.
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
What pleasure when, slow stealing o'er a rock,
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,
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,
Dropped from his hand the cup :-
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 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;