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THE OCEAN – Cornwall.

O tHou vast Ocean! Ever-sounding Sea! Thou symbol of a drear immensity! Thou thing that windest round the solid world, Like a huge animal, which, downward hurled From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone, Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone; Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep Is as a giant's slumber, loud and deep. Thou speakest in the east and in the west At once, and on thy heavy-laden breast Fleets come and go, and ships that have no life Or motion, yet are moved and met in strife. The earth hath nought of this: no chance nor change Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare Give answer to the tempest-waken air; But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range At will, and wound its bosom as they go: Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow; But in their stated rounds the seasons come, And pass

like visions to their viewless home, And come again, and vanish: the young Spring Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming; And Winter always winds his sullen horn, When the wild Autumn with a look forlorn Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies Weep, and flowers sicken, when the Summer flies. Thou only, terrible Ocean, hast a power, A will, a voice, and in thy wrathful hour, When thou dost lift thy anger to the clouds, A fearful and magnificent beauty shrouds Thy broad green forehead. If thy waves be driven Backwards and forwards by the shifting wind, How quickly dost thou thy great strength unbind, And stretch thinę arms, and war at once with heaven. Thou trackless and immeasurable Main! On thee no record ever lived again, To meet the hand that writ it: line nor lead Hath ever fathom'd thy profoundest deeps, Where haply the huge monster swells and sleeps, King of his watery limit, who, 't is said, Can move the mighty ocean into storm

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O! wonderful thou art, great element,
And fearful in thy spleeny humours bent,
And lovely in repose: thy summer form
Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves
Make music in earth's dark and winding caves,
I love to wander on thy pebbled beach,
Marking the sun-light at the evening hour,
And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach,
Eternity, Eternity, and Power'

THE BATTLE OF TALAVERA.-Byron.

Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?

aw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote?
Nor saved your brethren ere they sunk beneath
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves!—the fires of death,
The bale-fires flash on high:—from rock to rock,
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe,
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.

Lo! where the giant on the mountain stands, His blood-red tresses deep’ning in the sun, With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, And eye that scorcheth all it looks upon; Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon Flashing afar ---and at his iron feet Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done; For on this morn three potent nations meet To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
Three gaudy standards float the pale blue skies;
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally,
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,
Are met, as if at home they could not die
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.

There shall they rot-Ambition's honoured fools!
Yes, honour decks the turf that wraps their clay!
Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools,
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way
With human hearts—to what? a dream alone.
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway?
Or call with truth one span of earth their own,
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?

DIALOGUE.

Gesler and Albert.-Knowles

[Gesler with a hunting pole.] Ges. Alone-alone! and every step, the mist Thickens around me! On these mountain tracts To lose one's way, they say, is sometimes death! What, hoa! Holloa! No tongue replies to me! What thunder hath the horror of this silence! 'I dare not stop—the day, though not half run, Is not less sure to end his course; and night, Dreary when through the social haunts of men Her solemn darkness walks, in such a place As this, comes wrapped in most appalling fear.' I dare not stop—nor dare I yet proceed, Begirt with hidden danger: if I take This hand, it carries me still deeper into The wild and savage solitudes I'd shun, Where once to faint with hunger is to die: If this, it leads me to the precipice, Whose brink with fatal horror rivets him That treads upon 't, till drunk with fear, he reels Into the gaping void, and headlong down Plunges to still more hideous death. Cursed slaves, To let me wander from them! Hoa-holloa!My voice sounds weaker to mine ear; I've not The strength to call I had, and through my limbs Cold tremor runs—and sickening faintness seizes On my heart. O Heaven, have mercy!

Do not see

a

The color of the hands I lift to thee!
Look only on the strait wherein I stand,
And pity it! Let me not sink-Uphold!
Support me! Mercy!

-Mercy! [He stands stupified with terror and exhaustion. Albert enters with his hunting pole, not at first seeing Gesler.]

Alb. I'll breathe upon this level, if the wind
Will let me.

Ha! a rock to shelter me!
Thanks to 'tma man! and fainting. Courage, friend!
Courage.--A stranger that has lost his way,
Take heart---take heart: you 're safe. How feel you

now? Ges. Better. Alb.

You've lost your way upon the hill?
Ges. I have.
Alb.

And whither would you go?
Ges.

To Altorf.
Alb. I 'll guide you thither.
Ges.

You're a child.
Alb.

I know
The way; the track I 've come is harder far
To find.

Ges. The track you've come! what mean you?
Sure
you

have not been still farther in the mountains? Alb. I 've travelled from Mount Faigel. Ges.

No one with thee: Alb. No one but HIM. Ges.

Do you not fear these storms?
Alb. He's in the storm. terima
Ges.

And there are torrents, too,
That must be crossed?
Alb.

He's by the torrent, too.
Ges. You're but a child!
Alb.

He will be with a child.
Ges. You 're sure you know the way?
Alb.

'T is but to keep The side of yonder stream. Ges.

But guide me safe,
I'll give thee gold.
Alb.

I'll guide thee safe without.
Ges. Here's earnest for thee. Here—I'll double that,
Yea, treble it—but let me see the gate
Of Áltorf. Why do you refuse the gold?
Take it.

a

Why?

Alb. No.
Ges. You shall.
Alb.

I will not
Ges.
Alb.

Because
I do not covet it;—and though I did,
It would be wrong to take it as the price
Of doing one a kindness.
Ges.

Ha!-who taught
Thee that?
Alb.

My father.
Ges.

Does he live in Altorf ?
Alb. No; in the mountains.
Ges.

How-a mountaineer?
He should become a tenant of the city:
He'd gain by 't.
Alb.

Not so much as he might lose by 't. Ges. What he lose by 't? Alb.

Liberty Ges.

Indeed! He also taught thee that? Alb.

He did.
Ges.

His name?
Alb. This is the way to Altorf, Sir.
Ges.

I'd know
Thy father's name.
Alb.

The day is wasting-we
Have far to go.
Ges.
Thy father's name? I

say.
Alb. I will not tell it thee.
Ges.

Not tell it me!
Why?

Alb. You may be an enemy of his.
Ges. May be a friend.
Alb.

May be; but should you be
An enemy-although I would not tell you
My father's name I'd guide you safe to Altorf.
Will
you

follow me?
Ges.

Ne’er mind thy father's name.
What would it profit me to know 't? Thy hand;
We are not enemies.
Alb.

I never had

An enemy.

Lead on.

Ges.

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