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To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold
But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
Of all that flattered, followed, songht, and sued;
DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute; Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In color though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of ocean is deepest in die; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 'Tis the clime of the East; 'tis the land of the sunCan he smile on such deeds as his children have done? Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.
THE COLISEUM BY MOONLIGHT.
The stars are forth, the moon above the tops
Within a bowshot. Where the Cæsars dwelt,
the gaps of centuries;
The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had
Been stove in the beginning of the gale; And the long-boat's condition was but bad,
As there were but two blankets for a sail, And one oar for a mast, which a young lad
Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail; And two boats could not hold, far less be stored, To save one half the people then on board. 'Twas twilight, for the sunless day went down
Over the waste of waters ; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown
of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail; Tbus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown,
And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale And the dim desolate deep; twelve days had Fear Been their familiar, and now Death was here. At half past eight o'clock, booms, hen.coops, spars,
And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, That still could kecp afloat the struggling tars,
For yet they strove, although of no great use: There was no light in heaven but a few stars;
The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews; She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, And, going down head-foremost-sunk, in short, Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell!
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave;
Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave;
And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave,
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
Accompanied with a convulsive splash,
The seventh day, and no wind—the burning sun
Blister'd and scorch'd; and, stagnant on the sea They lay like carcasses; and hope was none,
Save in the breeze that came not; savagely
Water, and wine, and food-and you might see
Whisper'd another, and thus it went round,
An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound; And when his comrade's thought each sufferer knew,
'Twas but his own, suppress'd till now, he found : And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, And who should die to be his fellows' food. There were two fathers in this ghastly crew,
And with them their two sons, of whom the one Was as more robust and hardy to the view,
But he died early; and when he was gone, His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw
One glance on him, and said, “ Heaven's will be done! I can do nothing !" and he saw him thrown Into the deep, without a tear or groan. The other father had a weaklier child,
Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate; But the boy bore up long, and with a mild
And patient spirit, held aloof his fate;
As if to win a part from off the weight
From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed;
And when the wislı'd for shower at length was come,
Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam,
And look'd upon it long, and when at last
Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past,
'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast;
ANNA LÆTITIA BARBAULD, 1743—1825.
Anna Lætitia BARBAULD, a name long dear to the admirers of genius and the lovers of virtue, was the eldest child and only daughter of the Rev. John Aikin, master of a boys' school in the village of Kibworth Harcourt, in Leicestershire, and was born in that place on the 20th of June, 1743. In her very earliest childhood she discovered remarkable powers of mind, being able to read quite well at two and a half years of age. Her education was conducted by her father, and was of a very solid character; and though at that day there was a strong prejudice against imparting to females any tincture of classical learning, she devoted a portion of her time to the study of Latin, and before she was fifteen she had read many authors in that language with pleasure and advantage: nor did she rest satisfied without gaining some acquaintance with the Greek.
In 1758, when Miss Aikin had just attained the age of fifteen, her father removed from the somewhat obscure village of Kibworth to take charge of the classical department in the “dissenting'' academy at Warrington, in Lancashire, to which he had been invited. In the cultivated society of this place, she found most congenial associates, and here for fifteen years she passed probably the happiest, as well as the most brilliant, portion of her existence. In 1773, she was induced by her brother to collect the various poems she had from time to time written, and arrange them for publication. She did so; and with so much favor were they received by the public, that four editions were called for within that year. Her brother also induced her to join him in forming a small volume of prose pieces, which was published that same year, under the title of “Miscellaneous Pieces, in Prose, by J. and A. L. Aikin." These likewise met with much approbation, and have been several times reprinted.