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to the village to see whether he could procure à borse, or any other beast of burden, to enable him to pursue his journey. But what was his surprise, not to find a single individual alive!
It appears, that a band of robbers had entered the village during the night, killed its inhabitants, and plundered their houses. As soon as Akiba had sufficiently recovered from the amazement, into which this wonderful occurrence had thrown him, he lifted up his voice, and exclaimed, “Thou great God, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, now I know, by experience, that poor mortal men are short-sighted and blind; often considering as evils, what was intended for their preservation ! But thou, alone, art just, and kind, and merciful.
“ Had not the hard-hearted people driven me, by their inhospitality, from the village, I should assuredly have shared their fate. Had not the wind extinguished my lamp, the robbers would have been drawn to the spot, and have murdered me. I perceive, also, that it was thy mercy which deprived me of my companions, that they might not, by their noise, give notice to the banditti where I was. Praised, then, be thy name forever and ever!”
Alice Fell. WORDSWORTH.
The post-boy drove with fierce career,
For threatening clouds the moon had drowned, When suddenly I seemed to hear
A moan, a lamentable sound.
As if the wind blew many ways
I heard the sound, and more and more :
And still I heard it, as before.
At length, I to the boy called out:
He stopped his horses at the word ;
Nor ought else like it, could be heard.
The boy then smacked his whip, and fast
The horses scampered through the rain ; And soon I heard, upon the blast,
The voice, and bade* him halt again. Said I, alighting on the ground,
“What can it be, this piteous moan ?” And there a little girl I found,
Sitting behind the chaise alone.
“My cloak !" the word was last and first,
And loud and bitterly she wept, As if her very heart would burst;
And down from off the chaise she leapt. “What ails you, child ?” She sobbed, “Look here !"
I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather-beaten rag as e'er
From any garden scare-crow dangled.
'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke :
Her help she lent, and, with good heed, Together we released the cloak,
A wretched, wretched rag, indeed! « And whither are you going, child,
To-night, along these lonesome ways ?” “ To Durham," answered she, half wild :
“ Then come with me into the chaise."
She sat like one past all relief;
Sob after sob she forth did send In wretchedness, as if her grief
Could never, never, have an end.
My child, in Durham do
dwell >>> She checked herself in her distress, And said, "My name is Alice Fell:
I'm fatherless and motherless.
"And I to Durham, sir, belong.
And then, as if the thought would choke
* Pron. bad.
The chaise drove on; our journey's end
Was nigh; and, sitting by my side, As if she'd lost her only friend,
She wept, nor would be pacified.
Up to the tavern-door we post :
Of Alice and her grief I told; And I gave money to the host,
To buy a new cloak for the old. “And let it be of duffil gray,
As warm a cloak as man can sell !" Proud creature was she, the next day,
The little orphan, Alice Fell.
To the Æolian Harp.-EUROPEAN MAGAZINE.
HARP of the Zephyr, whose least breath, o'er
Thy tender string moving, is felt by thee; Harp of the whirlwind, whose fearfullest roar
Can arouse thee to nought but harmony :
The leaf that curls upon youth's warm hand,
Hath not a more sensitive soul than thou ; Yet the spirit that's in thee, unharmed, can withstand
The blast that shivers the stout oak bough.
When thankless flowers in silence bend,
Thou hailest the freshness of heaven with song;
Thou soothest the storm as it raves along.
That holiest temple of all below :
But a heavenlier note for the season of wo.
Harp of the breeze, whether gentle or strong,
Hark! hark !-even the swell of my own wild song
Hath awakened a mild, responsive strain.
It is not an echo: 'tis far too sweet
To be born of a lay so rude as mine : But, oh! when terror and softness meet,
How pure are the hues of the wreath they twine!
Thus the breath of my rapture hath swept thy chords,
And filled them with music, alas! not its own, Whose melody tells but how much my words,
Though admiring, have wronged that celestial tone. I hear it-I hear it-now fitfully swelling,
Like a chorus of seraphim earthward hying; And now, -as in search of a loftier dwelling,
The voices away, one by one, are dying. Heaven's own harp! save angel fingers,
None should dare open thy mystic treasures. Farewell ! for each note on mine ear still lingers,
And mine may not mingle with thy blest measures.
Burial of Sir John Moore.*-ANONYMOUS.
Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
And the lantern, dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet, nor in shroud; we bound him ; But he lay, like a warriour taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
* Who fell in the battle of Corunna, in Spain, 1808.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
And we far away on the billow.
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock tolled the hour for retiring;
That the foe was suddenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
But left him alone with his glory.
War contrary to the Courses of Nature, and the Spirit of the
Oh! how shall man his crime extenuate !