From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears;

Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears;
Restored me, loved me, put me on a par

With his great self. . How can I pay Jaffar'?'

4. Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this

The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss,
Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate
Might smile upon another half as great,
And said: "Let worth grow frenzied, if it will;
The caliph's judgment shall be master still.
Go; and, since gifts thus move thee, take this
The richest in the Tartar's diadem,

And hold the giver as thou deemest fit."

gem,

5. "Gifts!" cried the friend. He took; and, holding it High toward the heaven, as though to meet his star, Exclaimed, "This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar'!"

HUNT

A BOAT RACE, AND WRECK OF A BOAT.

1. ONE gusty day, now stormy and now still,
I stood apart upon the western hill,
And saw a race at sea: a gun was heard,
And two contending boats at length appeared:
Equal a while; then one was left behind,
And for a moment had her chance resigned,
When, in that moment, up a sail they drew-
Not used before their rivals to pursue.

2.

Strong was the gale! in hurry now there came

Men from the town, their thoughts, their fears, the same.

And women, too! affrighted maids and wives,

All deeply feeling for their sailors' lives.

The strife continued: in a glass we saw
The desperate efforts, and we stood in awe,
When the last boat shot suddenly before,
Then filled and sank, and could be seen no more!

3.

4.

5.

Then were there piercing shrieks - a frantic flight-
All hurried- all in tumult and affright!

A gathering crowd from different streets drew near;
All ask, all answer -none attend, none hear!
One boat is safe; and, see! she backs her sail
To save the sinking. Will her aid avail?

O! how impatient on the sands we tread,
The wild winds roaring o'er the uncovered head
Of many a woman, who, with frantic air,
Repels each comforter, and will despair.
They know not who in either boat is gone,
But think the father, husband, lover, one.

And who is she apart? She dares not come
To join the crowd, yet cannot rest at home:
With what strong interest looks she at the waves,
Meeting and clashing o'er the seamen's graves!
"T is a poor girl betrothed – a few hours more,
And he will be a corpse upon the shore!

1. WE one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a distance. At sea, everything that breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely wrecked; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves. There was no trace by which the name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about for many months; clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides.

2. But where, thought I, is the crew? Their struggle has long been over; they have gone down amidst the roar of the tempest; their bōnes lie whitening among the caverns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the story of their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship! what prayers offered up at the

deserted fireside of home! How often has the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the deep! How has expectation darkened into anxiety, anxiety into dread, and dread into despair! Alas! not one memento may ever return for love to cherish. All that may ever be known is, that she sailed from "and was never heard of more."

her port,

3. The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening, when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to look wild and threatening, and gave indications of one of those sudden storms that will sometimes break in upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat in the cabin, round the dull light of a lamp, that made the gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale of shipwreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with a short one related by the captain.

ΕΙ

4. "As I was once sailing," said he, "in a fine, stout ship, across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs which prevail in those parts rendered it impossible for us to see far ahead, even in the day-time; but at night the weather was so thick that we could not distinguish any object at twice the length of the ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch forward to look out for fishing-smacks, which are accustomed to lie at anchor on the banks.

5. "The wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the water. Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of 'A sail ahead!' It was scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, with her broadside towards us. The crew were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just amidships. The force, the size and weight, of our vessel, bore her down below the waves; wc passed over her, and were hurried on our

course.

6. "As the crashing wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches, rushing from her cabin; they just started from their beds to be swallowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning cry mingling with

the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears swept us out of all further hearing. I shall never forget that cry! It was some time before we could put the ship about, she was under such headway. We returned, as nearly as we could guess, to the place where the smack had anchored. We cruised about for several hours in the dense fog. We fired signal-guns, and listened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors; but all was silent —we never saw or heard anything of them more."

IRVING.

LXV. THE RESOLVE OF REGULUS.

Rĕg'ulus, a Roman consul, having been defeated in battle and taken prisoner by the Carthaginians, was detained in captivity five years, and then sent on an embassy to Rome to solicit peace, under a promise that he would return to Carthage if the proposals were rejected. These it was thought he would urge in order to obtain his own liberty; but he urged contrary and patriotic measures on his countrymen, and then, having carried his point, resisted the persuasions of his friends to remain in Rome, and returned to Carthage, where a martyr's death awaited him. Some writers say that he was thrust into a cask covered over on the inside with iron spikes, and thus rolled down hill. The following scene presents Regulus just as he has made known to his friends in Rome his resolution to return to Carthage.

Sertorius. STAY, Roman, in pity!—if not for thy life,
For the sake of thy country, thy children, thy wife.

Thy captors of Carthage vouchsafed thee release,
Not to urge Rome to war but to lead her to peace.

Thou return'st to encounter their anger, their rage;

No mercy expect for thy fame or thy age!

Regulus. To my captors one pledge, and one only, I gave: TO RETURN, though it were to walk into my grave!

No hope I extended, no promise I made,

Rome's senate and people from war to dissuade.

If the vengeance of Carthage be stored for me now,

I have reaped no dishonor, have broken no vow.

Sert. They released thee, but dreamed not that thou wouldst fulfil

A part that would leave thee a prisoner still :

They hoped thy own danger would lead thee to sway

The councils of Rome a far different way;

Would induce thee to urge the conditions they crave,
If only thy freedom, thy life-blood, to save.
Thought shudders the torment and woe to depict
Thy merciless foes have the heart to inflict !

Remain with us, Reg'ulus! do not go back!
No hope sheds its ray on thy death-pointing track. ·
Keep faith with the faithless?-The gods will forgive

The balking of such. O! live, Regulus, live!

Reg. With the consciousness fixed in the core of my heart That I had been playing the perjurer's part?

With the stain ever glaring, the thought ever nigh,
That I owe the base breath I inhale to a lie?
O, never let Carthage infract every oath,
Be false to her word and humanity bōth,
Yet never will I in her infamy share,

Or turn for a refuge to guilt from despair!

Sert. O think of the kindred and friends who await To fall on thy neck, and withhold thee from fate;

O! think of the widow, the orphans to be,

And let thy compassion plead softly with me.

Reg. O, my friend! thou canst soften, but canst not subdue ;

To the faith of my soul I must ever be true.

If my honor I cheapen, my conscience discrown,

All the graces of life to the dust are brought down;

All creation to me is a chaosEI once more

No heaven to hope for, no God to adore!

And the love that I feel for wife, children, and friend,

Has lost all its beauty, and thwarted its end.

Sert. Let thy country determine.

Reg.

My country? Her will,·

Were I free to obey, would be paramount still!

I go to my doom for my country alone;

My life is my country's

my honor, my own!

Sert. O, Regulus! think of the pangs in reserve!

Reg. What menace should make me from probity swerve ? Sert. Refinements of pain will these miscreants find

To daunt and disable the loftiest mind.

Reg. And 't is to a Roman thy fears are addressed!
Sert. Forgive me. I know thy unterrified breast.
Reg. Thou know'st me but human as weak to sustain
As thyself, or another, the searchings of pain.