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For a moment stood the Caliph, as by doubtful passions stirred;
Then exclaimed, "For ever sacred must remain a monarch's word:
Bring forth another cup, and straightway to the noble Persian give:-
Drink, I said before, and perish ;-now, I bid thee drink and live!"

XXII.-MIRIAM'S SONG.- -Moore.

SOUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumphed-His people are free!
Sing!-for the pride of the tyrant is broken;

His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave,
How vain was their boasting!—the Lord hath but spoken,
And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumphed-His people are free.
Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord!
His word was our arrow, His breath was our sword!
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?
For the Lord has looked out from His pillar of glory,
And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumphed-His people are free!

XXIII.-WAR-SONG OF THE GREEKS.-Proctor (Barry Cornwall.)

AWAKE! 'tis the terror of war!

The crescent is tossed on the wind;

But our flag flies on high, like the perilous star

Of the battle. Before and behind,

Wherever it glitters, it darts

Bright death into tyrannous hearts.

Who are they that now bid us be slaves?

They are foes to the good and the free;

Go, bid them first fetter the might of the waves!

The sea may be conquered; but we

Have spirits untamable still,

And the strength to be free,-and the will!

The Helots are come: In their eyes

Proud hate and fierce massacre burn;
They hate us, but shall they despise?
They are come; shall they ever return?
O.God of the Greeks! from thy throne
Look down, and we'll conquer alone!
Our fathers, each man was a god,

His will was a law, and the sound

Of his voice, like a spirit's, was worshipped: he trod,
And thousands fell worshippers round:
From the gates of the West to the Sun,
He bade, and his bidding was done.

And we

shall we die in our chains,

Who once were as free as the wind?
Who is it that threatens,-who is it arraigns?
Are they princes of Europe or Ind?
Are they kings to the uttermost pole?
They are dogs, with a taint on their soul!

XXIV.—THE FALL OF D'ASSAS.—Mrs. Hemans.

ALONE, through gloomy forest shades, a Soldier went by night,
No moon-beam pierced the dusky glades, no star shed guiding light.
Yet, on his vigil's midnight round, the youth all cheerly passed;
Unchecked by aught of boding sound, that muttered in the blast.
Where were his thoughts that lonely hour?-In his far home per-

chance

His father's hall-his mother's bower, 'midst the gay vines of France.
Hush! hark! did stealing steps go by? came not faint whispers near?
No!-the wild wind hath many a sigh, amidst the foliage sere.
Hark! yet again!—and from his hand, what grasp hath wrenched the
blade?

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Oh, single, 'midst a hostile band, young Soldier, thou'rt betrayed!
Silence!" in under-tones they cry; "No whisper-not a breath!
The sound that warns thy comrades nigh shall sentence thee to death!"
Still at the bayonet's point he stood, and strong to meet the blow;
And shouted, 'midst his rushing blood, "Arm! arm!-Auvergne !-the
foe!"

The stir-the tramp-the bugle-call-he heard their tumults grow;
And sent his dying voice through all-" Auvergne ! Auvergne! the
foe!"

XXV. THE DRUM.-Douglas Jerrold's Magazine.

YONDER is a little drum, hanging on the wall;

Dusty wreaths, and tattered flags, round about it fall.

A shepherd youth on Cheviot's hills, watched the sheep whose skin
A cunning workman wrought, and gave the little drum its din.

Oh, pleasant are fair Cheviot's hills, with velvet verdure spread,
And pleasant 'tis, among its heath, to make your summer bed;
And sweet and clear are Cheviot's rills that trickle to its vales,
And balmily its tiny flowers breathe on the passing gales.
And thus has felt the Shepherd-boy whilst tending of his fold;
Nor thought there was, in all the world, a spot like Cheviot's wold.

And so it was for many a day !-but change with time will come;
And he (alas for him the day!) he heard the little drum!
"Follow," said the drummer-boy, "would you live in story!
For he who strikes a foeman down, wins a wreath of glory."
"Rub-a-dub!" and "rub-a-dub!" the drummer beats away-
The shepherd lets his bleating flock o'er Cheviot wildly stray..

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On Egypt's arid wastes of sand the shepherd now is lying;
Around him many a parching tongue for "Water!" faintly crying:
Oh, that he were on Cheviot's hills, with velvet verdure spread,
Or lying 'mid the blooming heath where oft he made his bed:
Or could he drink of those sweet rills that trickle to its vales,
Or breathe once more the balminess of Cheviot's mountain gales!

At length, upon his wearied eyes, the mists of slumber come,
And he is in his home again-till wakened by the drum!
"Take arms! take arms!" his leader cries, "the hated foeman's nigh!"
Guns loudly roar-steel clanks on steel, and thousands fall to die.
The shepherd's blood makes red the sand: "Oh! water--give me

some!

My voice might reach a friendly ear-but for that little drum !"

'Mid moaning men, and dying men, the drummer kept his way, And many a one by "glory" lured, did curse the drum that day. "Rub-a-dub!" and "rub-a-dub!" the drummer beat aloudThe shepherd died! and, ere the morn, the hot sand was his shroud. -And this is "Glory ?"-Yes; and still will man the tempter follow, Nor learn that Glory, like its drum, is but a sound-and hollow!

XXVI.-DEATH OF DE BOUNE.-Scott.

OH! gay, yet fearful to behold,—
Flashing with steel, and rough with gold,
And bristled o'er with bills and spears,
With plumes and pennons waving fair,-
Was that bright battle-front! for there
Rode England's king and peers:
And who, that saw that monarch ride,
His kingdom battled by his side,
Could then his direful doom foretell!
Fair was his seat in knightly selle,
And in his sprightly eye was set
Some spark of the Plantagenet.
Though light and wandering was his glance,
It flashed, at sight of shield and lance.
"Know'st thou," he said, "De Argentine,
Yon knight who marshals thus their line ?"-
"The tokens on his helmet tell

The Bruce, my liege; I know him well.".
"And shall the audacious traitor brave
The presence where our banners wave ?"-
"So please my liege," said Argentine,
"Were he but horsed on steed like mine,
To give him fair and knightly chance,
I would adventure forth my lance."
"In battle-day," the king replied,
"Nice tourney rules are set aside.
Still must the rebel dare our wrath?
Set on him-sweep him from our path!"
And, at King Edward's signal, soon
Dashed from the ranks Sir Henry Boune.

He spurred his steed, he couched his lance,
And darted on the Bruce at once.

As motionless as rocks that bide
The wrath of the advancing tide,

The Bruce stood fast.-Each breast beat high,
And dazzled was each gazing eye.-
The heart had hardly time to shrink,
The eyelid scarce had time to wink,
While on the king, like flash of flame,
Spurred to full speed the war-horse came!-
The partridge may the falcon mock,
If that slight palfrey stand the shock!-
But, swerving from the knight's career,
Just as they met, Bruce shunned the spear.
Onward the bailled warrior bore

His course-but soon his course was o'er
High in his stirrups stood the king,
And gave his battle-axe the swing.
Right on De Boune, the whiles he passed,
Fell that stern dint-the first-the last!-
Such strength upon the blow was put,
The helmet crashed like hazel-nut;
The axe-shaft, with its brazen clasp,
Was shivered to the gauntlet grasp.
Springs from the blow the startled horse-
Drops to the plain the lifeless corse!
First of that fatal field, how soon,
How sudden, fell the fierce De Boune!

XXVII. THE MOTHER AND HER DEAD CHILD.-Moir.

WITH ceaseless sorrow, uncontrolled,
The mother mourned her lot;
She wept, and would not be consoled,
Because her child was not.

She gazed upon its nursery floor-
But there it did not play;

The toys it loved, the clothes it wore,

All void and vacant lay.

Her house, her heart, were dark and drear,
Without their wonted light,

The little star had left its sphere,
That there had shone so bright.

Her tears, at each returning thought,
Fell like the frequent rain;

Time on its wings no healing brought,
And Wisdom spoke in vain.

Even in the middle hour of night

She sought no soft relief;

But, by the taper's misty light,

Sat nourishing her grief.

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XXVIII.—THE AFRICAN CHIEF.-.
-Bryant.

CHAINED in the market-place he stood-a man of giant frame,
Amid the gathering multitude, that shrunk to hear his name:
All stern of look, and strong of limb, his dark eye on the ground :—
And silently they gazed on him, as on a lion bound.

Vainly, but well, that Chief had fought-he was a captive now ;
Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, was written on his brow.

The scars his dark broad bosom wore, showed warrior true and brave;
A prince among his tribe before, he could not be a slave!

Then to his conqueror he spake :-"My brother is a king;
Undo this necklace from my neck, and take this bracelet ring,
And send me where my brother reigns; and I will fill thy hands
With store of ivory from the plains, and gold dust from the sands."
"Not for thy ivory nor thy gold will I unbind thy chain;
That fettered hand shall never hold the battle-spear again.
A price thy nation never gave, shall yet be paid for thee:
Or thou shalt be the Christian's slave, in lands beyond the sea."

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