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The pilot, in silence, leans mournfully o'er

The rudder which creaks 'mid the billowy roar;
He hears the hoarse moan of the spray-driving blast,
And its funeral-wail through the shrouds of the mast;
The stars of far Europe have sunk from the skies,
And the great Southern Cross meets his terrified eyes;
But, at length, the slow dawn, softly streaking the night,
Illumes the blue vault with its faint crimson light.
"Columbus! 'tis day, and the darkness is o'er."-

"Day! what now dost thou see?"—"Sky and ocean. No

more!"

The second day's past-and Columbus is sleeping,
While Mutiny near him its vigil is keeping :

"Shall he perish?"-"Ay! death!" is the barbarous cry;
"He must triumph to-morrow, or, perjured, must die!"
Ungrateful and blind!-shall the world-linking sea,
He traced for the Future, his sepulchre be?

Shall that sea on the morrow, with pitiless waves,
Fling his corse on that shore which his patient eye craves?
The corse of an humble adventurer, then;

One day later,-Columbus, the first among men!

But, hush! he is dreaming!-A veil on the main,
At the distant horizon, is parted in twain;
And now, on his dreaming eye,-rapturous sight!-
Fresh bursts the New World from the darkness of night!
Oh, vision of glory! how dazzling it seems!
How glistens the verdure! how sparkle the streams!
How blue the far mountains! how glad the green isles!
And the earth and the ocean, how dimpled with smiles!
"Joy! joy!" cries Columbus, "this region is mine!"
-Ah! not e'en its name, wondrous dreamer, is thine!

At length, o'er Columbus slow consciousness breaks,—
"Land! land!" cry the sailors; "land! land!"—He awakes-
He runs, yes! behold it!-it blesseth his sight,-
The land! Oh, dear spectacle! transport! delight!
Oh, generous sobs, which he cannot restrain!

What will Ferdinand say? and the Future? and Spain?
He will lay this fair land at the foot of the Throne,-
His King will repay all the ills he has known.

In exchange for a world, what are honours and gains?
Or a crown?...But, how is he rewarded?—with chains!

XVII.-THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON.- -M'Lellan.
WILD was the night! yet a wilder night
Hung round the Soldier's pillow;
In his bosom there raged a fiercer fight,
Than the fight on the wrathful billow.
A few fond mourners were kneeling by-
The few that his stern heart cherish'd;
They knew, by his glared and unearthly eye,
That life had nearly perish'd.

They knew, by his awful and kingly look,

By the order hastily spoken,

That he dream'd of days when the nations shook, And the nations' hosts were broken!

He dream'd that the Frenchman's sword still slew-
Still triumph'd the Frenchman's "eagle;"
That the struggling Austrian fled anew,
Like the hare before the beagle.

The bearded Russian he scourged again-
The Prussian's camp was routed-
And again, on the hills of haughty Spain,
His mighty armies shouted;-

Over Egypt's sands-over Alpine snows-
At the Pyramids-at the mountain-
Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows-
And by the Italian fountain.

On the snowy cliffs where mountain-streams
Dash by the Switzer's dwelling,
He led again, in his dying dreams,
His hosts, the broad earth quelling.
Again Marengo's field was won,
And Jena's bloody battle;
Again the world was over-run,
Made pale at his cannon's rattle.

He died at the close of that darksome day-
A day that shall live in story:

In the rocky land they placed his clay,
"And left him alone with his glory."

XVIII.-LUCY GRAY.- -William Wordsworth.

OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray: and, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see, at break of day, the solitary child.
No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew; she dwelt on a wide moor-
The sweetest thing that ever grew beside a human door!—
You yet may spy the fawn at play, the hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night-you to the town must go; And take a lantern, child, to light your Mother through the

snow."

"That, Father, will I gladly do! 'tis scarcely after noonThe minster-clock has just struck two, and yonder is the moon!" At this the Father raised his hook, and snapped a faggot-band; He plied his work; and Lucy took the lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:-with many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, that rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time: she wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb,-but never reached the town! The wretched parents all that night went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight to serve them for a guide. At daybreak, on a hill they stood that overlooked the moor: And thence they saw the bridge of wood,-a furlong from the door.

They wept, and, turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet!"

When, in the snow, the Mother spied the print of Lucy's feet. Then downwards from the steep hill's edge they tracked the footmarks small,

And through the broken hawthorn hedge, and by the long stone wall;

And then an open field they crossed; the marks were still the

same;

They tracked them on, nor ever lost, and to the bridge they came. They followed, from the snowy bank, those footmarks, one by

one,

Into the middle of the plank;-and farther there were none !

Yet some maintain that to this day she is a living child— That you may see sweet Lucy Gray upon the lonesome wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, and never looks behind; And sings a solitary song that whistles in the wind.

XIX. -MARMION AND DOUGLAS AT TANTALLON CASTLE.

Sir Walter Scott.

NoT far advanced was morning-day, when Marmion did his troop array to Surrey's camp to ride: he had safe-conduct for his band, beneath the royal seal and hand, and Douglas gave a guide. The ancient Earl, with stately grace, would Clara on her palfrey place; and whispered in an under-tone, "Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown."

The train from out the Castle drew; but Marmion stopped to bid adieu :-"Though something I might 'plain," he said, "of cold respect to stranger-guest, sent hither by your king's behest, while in Tantallon's towers I stayed; part we in friendship from your land, and, noble Earl, receive my hand.". But Douglas round him drew his cloak, folded his arms, and thus he spoke :-"My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still be open, at my Sovereign's will, to each one whom he lists, howe'er unmeet to be the owner's peer: My castles are my King's alone, from turret to foundation stone;-the hand of Douglas is his own! and never shall, in friendly grasp, the hand of such as Marmion clasp!"

Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, and shook his very frame for ire: "Ah! this to me," he said;—“ An 'twere not for thy hoary beard, such hand as Marmion's had not spared to cleave the Douglas' head! And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer, he who brings England's message here, although the meanest in her state, may well, proud Angus, be thy mate! And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, even in thy pitch of pride,-here in thy hold, thy vassals near,(nay, never look upon your lord, and lay your hands upon your sword),-I tell thee, thou'rt defied! And if thou saidst I am not peer to any lord in Scotland here,-Lowland or Highland, far or near,-Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"

On the Earl's cheek, the flush of rage o'ercame the ashen hue of age. Fierce he broke forth :-"And dar'st thou, then, to beard the lion in his den, the Douglas in his hall? And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go?-No! by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!-Up drawbridge, grooms!-what, warder, ho! let the portcullis fall!"

Lord Marmion turned-well was his need,—and dashed the rowels in his steed; like arrow through the archway sprung; the ponderous gate behind him rung: to pass there was such scanty room, the bars, descending, razed his plume!

XX.—0’BRAZIL-THE ISLE OF THE BLEST.—Gerald Griffin.
On the Ocean, that hollows the rocks where ye dwell,
A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell :
Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest,
And they called it, "O'Brazil-the Isle of the Blest."
From year unto year, on the ocean's blue rim,
The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim;
The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay,-
And it looked like an Eden,-away, far away!

A Peasant, who heard of the wonderful tale,
In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail;
From Ara, the holy, he turned to the West,
For, though Ara was holy, O'Brazil was blest!
He heard not the voices that called from the shore-
He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar :
Home, kindred, and safety he left on that day, . .
And he sped to O'Brazil,-away, far away!

Morn rose on the deep!—and that shadowy Isle
O'er the faint rim of distance reflected its smile:
Noon burned on the wave!-and that shadowy shore
Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before:
Lone Evening came down on the wanderer's track,
And to Ara again he looked timidly back :-
Oh! far on the verge of the ocean it lay,
Yet the Isle of the Blest was away, far away!

Rash dreamer, return! O ye winds of the main,
Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again!
Rash fool! for a vision of fanciful bliss,
To barter thy calm life of labour and peace!-
The warning of reason was spoken in vain,
He never revisited Ara again!

Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray,
And he died on the waters, away, far away!

XXI. DOMESTIC ASIDES-TRUTH IN PARENTHESIS. -Thomas Hood.

"I REALLY take it very kind, this visit, Mrs. Skinner!

I have not seen you such an age-(the wretch has come to dinner!)

Your daughters, too, what loves of girls-what heads for painters' easels!

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