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In each of which he seems to shake a lance,
As brandished at the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were
To see thee in our water yet appear,

And make those flights upon the banks of Thames
That so did take Eliza and our James!
But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanced, and made a constellation there!
Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage,

Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage Which since thy flight from hence hath mourned like night,

And despairs day, but for thy volume's light!

W

BEN JONSON.

EPITAPH ON SHAKESPEARE.

HAT needs my Shakespeare for his honored

bones,

The labor of an age in pilèd stones?

Or that his hallowed relics should be hid

Under a starry-pointing pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thyself a live-long monument.
For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavoring art
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those delphic lines with deep impression took,
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;
And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
JOHN MILTON.

MARIUS.

High thoughts may seem, 'mid passion's strife, Like Carthage in decay.

And proud hopes in the human heart

May be to ruin hurled,

Like mouldering monuments of art
Heaped on a sleeping world.

Yet there is something will not die,
Where life hath once been fair;

Some towering thoughts still rear on high,
Some Roman lingers there!

LYDIA MARIA CHILD.

SUFFERINGS AND DESTINY OF THE PILGRIMS.

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ETHINKS I see it now, that one solitary, ad. venturous vessel, the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it pursuing with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight of the wishedfor shore. I see them now, scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route; and now driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy wave. The awful voice of the storm howls through the rigging; the laboring masts seem straining from their base; the dismal sound of the pumps is heard; the ship leaps, as it were, madly, from billow to billow; the ocean breaks, and settles with ingulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats with deadening, shivering weight, against the staggered vessel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing

Suggested by a painting by Vanderlyn, of Marius seated among their all but desperate undertaking, and landed, at last,

P

the ruins of Carthage.

ILLARS are fallen at thy feet,

Fanes quiver in the air,
A prostrate city is thy seat-

And thou alone art there.

No change comes o'er thy noble brow,
Though ruin is around thee;
Thine eye-beam burns as proudly now,
As when the laurel crowned thee.
It cannot bend thy lofty soul,

Though friends and fame depart;
The car of fate may o'er thee roll,
Nor crush thy Roman heart.

And genius hath electric power,

Which earth can never tame;

Bright suns may scorch, and dark clouds lowerIts flash is still the same.

The dreams we loved in early life

May melt like mist away;

after a few months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth-weak and weary from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, without shelter, without means, surrounded by hostile tribes.

Shut, now, the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers? Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes enumerated within the early limits of New England? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast? Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures of other times, and find the parallel of this! Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and children? was it hard labor and spare meals? was it disease? was it the tomahawk ? was it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching, in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved and

left, beyond the sea?-was it some or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate? And is it possible that neither of these causes, that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope! Is it possible that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an expansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious! EDWARD EVERETT.

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From his hut, and the grave of his friend, far away— He is gone where the footsteps of men never ventured, Where the glooms of the wild-tangled forest are centred,

Where no beam of the sun or the sweet moon has entered,

No bloodhound has roused up the deer with his bay. Light be the heart of the poor lonely wanderer ;

Firm be his step through each wearisome mileFar from the cruel man, far from the plunderer, Far from the track of the mean and the vile.

And when death, with the last of its terrors, assails him,

And all but the last throb of memory fails him,
He'll think of the friend, far away, that bewails him,
And light up the cold touch of death with a smile.
And there shall the dew shed its sweetness and lustre;
There for his pall shall the oak-leaves be spread—
The sweet brier shall bloom, and the wild grape shall
cluster;

And o'er him the leaves of the ivy be shed,
There shall they mix with the fern and the heather;
There shall the young eagle shed its first feather;
The wolves, with his wild dogs, shall lie there together,
And moan o'er the spot where the hunter is laid.
JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.

THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ.
May 28, 1857.

T was fifty years ago,

In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud,

A child in its cradle lay.

And Nature, the old nurse, took

The child upon her knee, Saying, "Here is a story-book

Thy Father has written for thee."

"Come, wander with me," she said,

"Into regions yet untrod,
And read what is still unread

In the manuscripts of God."
And he wandered away and away
With Nature, the dear old nurse,
Who sang to him night and day

The rhymes of the universe.

And whenever the way seemed long,
Or his heart began to fail,

She would sing a more wonderful song,
Or tell a more marvellous tale.

So she keeps him still a child,
And will not let him go,
Though at times his heart beats wild
For the beautiful Pays de Vaud;

Though at times he hears in his dreams
The Ranz des Vaches of old,
And the rush of mountain streams
From glaciers clear and cold;

And the mother at home says, "Hark!
For his voice I listen and yearn.
It is growing late and dark,

And my boy does not return!"
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW,

A PANEGYRIC TO OLIVER CROMWELL.

HILE with a strong and yet a gentle hand,
You bridle faction, and our hearts command,
Protect us from ourselves, and from the foe,
Make us unite, and make us conquer too;

Let partial spirits still aloud complain,
Think themselves injured that they cannot reign,
And own no liberty, but where they may
Without control upon their fellows prey.

Above the waves, as Neptune showed his face,
To chide the winds, and save the Trojan race,
So has your Highness, raised above the rest,
Storms of ambition tossing us repressed.

Your drooping country, torn with civil hate,
Restored by you, is made a glorious state;
The seat of empire, where the Irish come,
And the unwilling Scots, to fetch their doom.

The sea's our own; and now all nations greet,
With bending sails, each vessel of our fleet;
Your power extends as far as winds can blow,
Or swelling sails upon the globe may go.

Still as you rise, the state exalted too,

Finds no distemper while 'tis changed by you, Changed like the world's great scene when, without noise,

The rising sun night's vulgar lights destroys

Had you, some ages past, this race of glory

Run, with amazement we should read your story,
But living virtue, all achievements past,
Meets envy still to grapple with at last.

This Cæsar found; and that ungrateful age,
With losing him, went back to blood and rage,
Mistaken Brutus thought to break their yoke,
But cut the bond of union with that stroke.

That sun once set, a thousand meaner stars
Gave a dim light to violence and wars;
To such a tempest as now threatens all,
Did not your mighty arm prevent the fall?

If Rome's great senate could not wield that sword,
Which of the conquered world had made them lord,
What hope had ours, while yet their power was new,
To rule victorious armies, but by you?

You, that had taught them to subdue their foes,
Could order teach, and their high spirits compose,
To every duty could their minds engage,
Provoke their courage, and command their rage.

So when a lion shakes his dreadful mane,
And angry grows, if he that first took pain
To tame his youth approach the haughty beast,
He bends to him, but frights away the rest.

As the vexed world, to find repose, at last
Itself into Augustus' arms did cast,
So England now does, with like toil opprest,
Her weary head upon your bosom rest.

Then let the muses, with such notes as these,
Instruct us what belongs unto our peace.
Your battles they hereafter shall indite,
And draw the image of our Mars in fight.

EDMUND WALLER

WOLSEY'S ADVICE TO CROMWELL.

ROMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries, but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman
Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me,
Cromwell;

And-when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee,
Say, Wolsey-that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor-
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me.

| Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:
By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't?
Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee:
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,

Thy God's, and truth's, then if thou fall'st, O Crom well!

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr.

Serve the king; and-pr'ythee, lead me in.
There take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny; 't is the king's: my robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, is all

I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, He would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies!

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

LORD MACAULAY.

'HE dreamy rhymer's measured snore
Falls heavy on our ears no more,
And by long strides are left behind
The dear delights of womankind,
Who wage their battles like their loves,
In satin waistcoats and kid gloves,
And have achieved the crowning work
When they have trussed and skewered Turk
Another comes with stouter tread,

And stalks among the statlier dead.
He rushes on and hails by turns

High-crested Scott, broad breasted Burns,
And shows the British youth, who ne'er
Will lag behind, what Romans were,
When all the Tuscans and their Lars
Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars
WALTER Savage LanDOR.

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JOSEPH MAZZINI

LIGHT is out in Italy,

A golden tongue of purest flame. We watched it burning, long and lone, And every watcher knew its name, And knew from whence its fervor came, That one rare light of Italy, Which put self-seeking souls to shame'

This light which burnt for italy

Through all the blackness of her night, She doubted, once upon a time,

Because it took away her sight. She looked and said, "There is no light!" It was thine eyes, poor Italy! That knew not dark apart from bright.

This flame which burnt for Italy,
It would not let her haters sleep.
They blew at it with angry breath,

And only fed its upward leap,
And only made it hot and deep.

Its burning showed us Italy, And all the hopes she had to keep.

This light is out in Italy,

Her eyes shall seek for it in vain! For her sweet sake it spent itself,

Too early flickering to its waneToo long blown over by her pain. Bow down and weep, O Italy, Thou canst not kindle it again!

Laura C. REDDEN (Howard Glyndon).

MARIA THERESA'S APPEAL TO HUNGARY.

ARIA Theresa was twenty-four years old, when she succeeded her father on the thrones of Austria, Hungary, and Bohemia. Notwithstanding the guarantee given her father by the European powers, she soon found herself opposed by nearly all of them, who sought to wrest her dominions from her and divide them among themselves. The battle of Molwitz made the situation of Maria Theresa almost desperate, and a little later an alliance was formed against her by France, Prussia, Bavaria, Spain and Saxony. A French army entered Germany and united with the Bavarian forces, while the Saxon army advanced into Bohemia. The Bavarians marched into upper Austria and occupied Linz, where the elector was proclaimed Archduke of Austria. He might have taken Vienna had he moved promptly against the city, but becoming jealous of the successes of the Saxons in Bohemia, he undertook the conquest of that country. He entered Prague and was proclaimed King of Bohemia. In January, 1742, he was chosen emperor by the electors at Frankfort, and took the title of Charles VII.

In the meantime Maria Theresa had exerted herself to repair her disasters. She fled to her kingdom! of Hungary for protection, and hastening to the assembled diet, with her infant son, afterwards Joseph II., in her arms, presented herself before the nobles and deputies, and appealed to them to maintain her cause. The chivalric Hungarians were deeply moved by her trust in them, and the hall rang with the cry: "Let us die for our King, Maria Theresa!" An army of 100,000 men was raised, and was joined by a strong force of Tyrolese. This force at once took the field. One division not only reconquered upper Austria, but invaded Bavaria, and captured Munich on the very day that Charles VII. was crowned emperor. A little later an Austrian army, under Prince Charles of Lorraine, was defeated by Frederick at Czaslau. This disaster induced the Queen to rid herself of her most

dangerous enemy by surrendering upper Silesia and a part of lower Silesia to him. Frederick was satisfied for the time, and peace was made between Austria and Prussia.

DANIEL BOONE.

F all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer,
Who passes for in life and death most lucky,
Of the great names which in our faces stare,
The General Boone, backwoodsman of
Kentucky,

Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere;
For, killing nothing but a bear or buck, he
Enjoyed the lonely, vigorous, harmless days
Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze.

Crime came not near him, she is not the child
Of solitude; health shrank not from him, for
Her home is in the rarely trodden wild,

Where if men seek her not, and death be more
Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled
By habit to what their own hearts abhor,
In cities caged. The present case in point I
Cite is, that Boone lived hunting up to ninety;
And, what's still stranger, left behind a name
Not only famous, but of that good fame,
For which men vainly decimate the throng,

Without which glory's but a tavern song-
Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame,
Which hate nor envy could e'er tinge with wrong;
An active hermit, even in age the child
Of nature, or the Man of Ross run wild.
'Tis true he shrank from men, even of his nation ;
When they built up unto his darling trees,
He moved some hundred miles off, for a station
Where there were fewer houses and more ease;
The inconvenience of civilization

Is that you neither can be pleased nor please;
But where he met the individual man,
He showed himself as kind as mortal can.

LORD BYRON.

A WELCOME TO "BOZ."

ON HIS FIRST VISIT TO THE WEST.

OME as artist, come as guest,
Welcome to the expectant West,
Hero of the charmèd pen,
Loved of children, loved of men.
We have felt thy spell for years;
Oft with laughter, oft with tears,
Thou hast touched the tenderest part
Of our inmost, hidden heart.
We have fixed our eager gaze
On thy pages nights and days,
Wishing, as we turned them o'er,
Like poor Oliver, for "more,"

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Old acquaintances of thee.

Much we hold it thee to greet,
Gladly sit we at thy feet;
On thy features we would look,
As upon a living book,

And thy voice would grateful hear,
Glad to feel that Boz were near,
That his veritable soul
Held us by direct control:
Therefore, author loved the best,
Welcome, welcome to the West.
In immortal Weller's name,
By the rare Micawber's fame,

By the flogging wreaked on Squeers,
By Job Trotter's fluent tears,
By the beadle Bumble's fate
At the hands of shrewish mate,
By the famous Pickwick Club,
By the dream of Gabriel Grubb,
In the name of Snodgrass' muse,
Tupman's amorous interviews,
Winkle's ludicrous mishaps,
And the fat boy's countless naps ;
By Ben Allen and Bob Sawyer,
By Miss Sally Brass, the lawyer,
In the name of Newman Noggs,
River Thames, and London fogs,
Richard Swiveller's excess,
Feasting with the Marchioness,
By Jack Bunsby's oracles,
By the chime of Christmas bells,
By the cricket on the hearth,
By the sound of childish mirth,
By spread tables and good cheer,
Wayside inns and pots of beer,
Hostess plump and jolly host,
Coaches for the turnpike post,
Chambermaid in love with Boots,
Toodles, Traddles, Tapley, Toots,
Betsey Trotwood, Mister Dick,
Susan Nipper, Mistress Chick,
Snevellicci, Lilyvick,
Mantalini's predilections

To transfer his warm affections,
By poor Barnaby and Grip,
Flora, Dora, Di, and Gip,
Perrybingle, Pinch, and Pip-
Welcome, long-expected guest,
Welcome to the grateful West.
In the name of gentle Nell,
Child of light, beloved well-
Weeping, did we not behold
Roses on her bosom cold?
Better we for every tear
Shed beside her snowy bier-

By the mournful group that played

Round the grave where Smike was laid, By the life of Tiny Tim,

And the lesson taught by him,

Asking in his plaintive tone
God to "bless us every one,"

By the sounding waves that bore
Little Paul to heaven's shore,
By thy yearning for the human
Good in every man and woman.
By each noble deed and word
That thy story-books record,
And each noble sentiment
Dickens to the world hath lent,
By the effort thou hast made
Truth and true reform to aid,
By thy hope of man's relief
Finally from want and grief,
By thy never-failing trust
That the God of love is just-
We would meet and welcome thee,
Preacher of humanity :

Welcome fills the throbbing breast
Of the sympathetic West.

W. H. VEnable.

TO VICTOR HUGO.

ICTOR in poesy! Victor in romance !
Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes and fears!
French of the French and lord of human
tears!

Child-lover, bard, whose fame-lit laurels glance,
Darkening the wreaths of all that would advance
Beyond our strait their claim to be thy peers!
Weird Titan, by thy wintry weight of years
As yet unbroken! Stormy voice of France,
Who does not love our England, so they say;
I know not! England, France, all men to be,
Will make one people, ere man's race be run;
And I, desiring that diviner day,

Yield thee full thanks for thy full courtesy
To younger England in the boy, my son.
ALFRED TENNYSON.

MARIA DE MEDICIS RECEIVING THE REGENCY.

ARIA de Medicis, queen of France, was the daughter of Francis II., grand duke of Tuscany, and of Joan, archduchess of Austria. She was born at Florence in 1573. In 1650 she was married to Henry IV. Her son who became Louis XIII, was born the following year; his deplorable weakness as he grew up was the principal cause of his mother's misfortunes. The amours of her husband rendered her life a wretched one, and, being of a violent temper, the peace of the royal household

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