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No echo in thy children's hearts awake;
When, pealing softly with a pensive chime,
Or deep-ton'd cadence o'er the hills and dales,
Cities and towns, and hamlets far away,-
It bids us feel what Luther's genius won;
Who pluck'd our sabbaths out of papal mire,
And gave to myriads God's own day of rest.
R. MONTGOMERY.

LAKE OF THRASIMENE.

I ROAM

By Thrasimene's lake1, in the defiles Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles Come back before me, as his skill beguiles The host between the mountains and the shore, Where Courage falls in her despairing files, And torrents, swoln to rivers with their gore, Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter'd o'er,

Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds;
And such the storm of battle on this day,
And such the phrensy, whose convulsion blinds
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray 2
An earthquake reel'd unheededly away!
None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet,
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay
Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet;

Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet!

The Lake of Perugia.

So great was their mutual animosity, that the earthquake which overthrew many of the cities of Italy, was not (writes Livy) felt by one of the combatants.

The Earth to them was as a rolling bark
Which bore them to Eternity; they saw
The Ocean round, but had no time to mark
The motions of their vessel; Nature's law,
In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe
Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the
birds

Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw From their down-toppling nests; and bellowing herds

Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no words.

For other scene is Thrasimene now;
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough;
Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain
Lay where their roots are, but a brook hath ta'en-
A little rill of scanty stream and bed-

A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain;
And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead

Made the earth wet, and turn'd the unwilling waters

red,

THE SAILOR. '

Oh! gloriously upon the deep
The gallant vessel rides ;
And she is mistress of the deep,
And mistress of the tides.

And never but for her tall ships"
Had England been so proud;

Or before the might of the Island Queen
The kings of the earth had bow'd.

BYRON.

But, alas! for the widow and orphan's tear,
When the death-flag sweeps the wave;
Alas! that the laurel of victory

Must grow but upon the grave!

AN aged widow with one only child,
And even he was far away at sea:

Narrow and mean the street wherein she dwelt,
And low and small the room; but still it had
A look of comfort; on the white-washed walls
Were rang'd her many ocean-treasures shells,
Some like the snow, and some pink, with a blush
Caught from the sunset on the waters; plumes
From the bright pinions of the Indian birds;
Long dark sea-weeds, and black and crimson
berries,

Were treasur'd with the treasuring of the heart.
Her sailor brought them, when from his first

voyage,

He came so sunburnt and so tall, she scarce
Knew her fair stripling in that manly youth,
Like a memorial of far better days,

The large old Bible, with its silver clasps,
Lay on the table; and a fragrant air

Came from the window: there stood a rose-tree.

Lonely, but of luxuriant growth, and rich

With thousand buds and beautifully blown flowers:
It was a slip from that which grew beside
The cottage, once her own, which ever drew
Praise from each passer down the shadowy lane
Where her home stood· the home where yet she

thought

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To end her days in peace: that was the hope
That made life pleasant, and it had been fed

By the so ardent spirits of her boy,

Who said that God would bless the effort made

For his old mother. —Like a holiday

Each Sunday came, for then her patient way

She took to the white church of her own village, A long five miles; and many marvell❜d, one So aged, so feeble, still should seek that church. They knew not how delicious the fresh air,

How fair the green leaves and the fields, how glad
The sunshine of the country, to the eyes

That look'd so seldom on them. She would sit
Long after service on a grave, and watch

The cattle as they graz'd, the yellow corn,

The lane where yet her home might be; and then

Return with lighten'd heart to her dull street,
Refresh'd with hope and pleasant memories,
Listen with anxious ear to the conch shell,
Wherein they say the rolling of the sea
Is heard distinct, pray for her absent child,
Bless him, then dream of him.

A shout awoke the sleeping town, - the night Rang with the fleet's return and victory! Men that were slumbering quietly rose up And join'd the shout: the windows gleam'd with lights,

The bells rang forth rejoicingly, the paths

Were fill'd with people: even the lone street, Where the poor widow dwelt, was rous'd, and

sleep

Was thought upon no more that night. Next day

A bright and sunny day it was - high flags
Wav'd from each steeple, and green boughs were

hung

In the gay market-place; music was heard, Bands that struck up in triumph; and the sea Was cover'd with proud vessels; and the boats Went to and fro the shore, and waving hands Beckon'd from crowded decks to the glad strand Where the wife waited for her husband, maids

-

Threw the bright curls back from thei glistening

eyes

And look'd their best, and as the splashing oar
Brought dear ones to the land, how every voice
Grew musical with happiness! And there
Stood that old widow woman with the rest,
Watching the ship wherein had sail'd her son.
A boat came from that vessel, heavily
It toil'd upon the waters, and the oars

Were dipp'd in slowly. As it near'd the beach,
A moaning sound came from it, and a groan
Burst from the lips of all the anxious there,
When they look'd on each ghastly countenance;
For that lone boat was fill'd with wounded men,
Bearing them to the hospital, .and then
That aged woman saw her son.

She pray'd,

And gain'd her prayer, that she might be his

nurse,

And take him home. He liv'd for many days.
It sooth'd him so to hear his mother's voice,
To breathe the fragrant air sent from the roses
The roses that were gather'd one by one
For him by his fond parent nurse; the last
Was plac'd upon his pillow, and that night,
That very night, he died! And he was laid
In the same church-yard where his father lay,
Through which his mother as a bride had pass'd.
The grave was clos'd; but still the widow sat
Upon a sod beside, and silently

(Hers was not grief that words had comfort for)
The funeral train pass'd on, and she was left
Alone amid the tombs ; but once she look'd
Towards the shadowy lane, then turn'd again,
As desolate and sick at heart, to where

Her help, her hope, her child, lay dead together!
She went home to her lonely room.
Next morn
Some enter'd it, and there she sat,

Her white hair hanging o'er the wither'd hands

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