Herminius smote Mamilius

Through breast-plate and through breast; And fast flow'd out the purple blood Over the purple vest.

Mamilius smote Herminius

Through head-piece and through head; And side by side those chiefs of pride Together fell down dead.


Fast, fast, with heels wild spurning,
The dark-gray charger fled:

He burst through ranks of fighting men;
He sprang o'er heaps of dead.
His bridle far out-streaming,

His flanks all blood and foam,
He sought the southern mountains,
The mountains of his home.
The pass was steep and rugged,

The wolves they howl'd and whin'd;
But he ran like a whirlwind up the pass,
And he left the wolves behind.
Through many a startled hamlet

Thunder'd his flying feet:

He rushed through the gate of Tusculum,
He rush'd up the long white street,
He rush'd by tower and temple,

And paus'd not from his race,

Till he stood before his master's door
In the stately market place.
And straightway round him gather'd
A pale and trembling crowd,
And when they knew him, cries of rage
Brake forth, and wailing loud:

And women rent their tresses

For their great prince's fall;

Aud old men girt on their old swords,
And went to man the wall.

But like a graven image,
Black Auster kept his place,
And ever wistfully he look'd
Into his master's face.
The raven mane that daily,
With pats and fond caresses,
The young Herminia wash'd and comb'd,
And twin'd in even tresses;
And deck'd with colour'd ribands
From her own gay attire,
Hung sadly o'er her father's corpse
In carnage and in mire.

And Aulus the Dictator

Stroked Auster's raven mane, With heed he look'd unto the girths, With heed unto the rein.

"Now bear me well, black Auster, thick array;

Into yon

And thou and I will have revenge

For thy good Lord this day."



THE stranger's heart! Oh! wound it not!
A yearning anguish is its lot!

In the green shadow of thy tree,

The stranger finds no rest with thee.

Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves
Glad music round thy household eaves;
To him, that sound hath sorrow's tone-
The stranger's heart is with his own.

Thou think'st thy children's laughing play
A lovely sight at fall of day;-

Then are the stranger's thoughts oppress'd-
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast.

Thou think'st it sweet when friend with friend
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend;
Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim
Far, far are those who pray'd with him.


Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land-
The voices of thy kindred band
Oh! 'midst them all when blest thou art,
Deal gently with the stranger's heart.



LET coward Guilt, with pallid fear,
To shelt'ring caverns fly,
And justly dread the vengeful fate
That thunders through the sky.

Protected by that Hand, whose law
The threat'ning storms obey,
The true believer smiles secure,
As in the blaze of day.

In the thick clouds' tremendous gloom,
The lightning's lurid glare,
He views the same all-gracious Power
That breathes the vernal air.

Through nature's ever-varying scene,
By different ways pursued,

The one eternal end of Heaven
Is universal good.

With like beneficent effect

O'er flaming ether glows,

As when it tunes the linnet's voice,
Or blushes in the rose.

By reason taught to scorn those fears
That vulgar minds molest,
Let no fantastic terrors break
My dear Narcissa's rest.

Thy life may all the tenderest care
Of Providence defend;

And delegated angels round

Their guardian wings extend.

When through creation's vast expanse
The last dread thunders roll,
Untune the concord of the spheres,
And shake the rising soul;

Unmov'd may'st thou the final storm
Of jarring worlds survey,

That ushers in the glad serene

Of everlasting day.



Dost thou not love, in the season of spring,
To twine thee a flowery wreath,
And to see the beautiful birch-tree fling
Its shade on the grass beneath?
Its glossy leaf, and its silvery stem;

Oh! dost thou not love to think on them?

And dost thou not love, when leaves are greenest,
And summer has just begun,

When in the silence of moonlight thou leanest,
Where glist'ning waters run,

To see, by that gentle and peaceful beam,
The willow bend down to the sparkling stream?

And oh! in a lovely autumnal day,

When leaves are changing before thee,
Do not Nature's charms, as they slowly decay,
Spread their own mild influence o'er thee?
And hast thou not felt, as thou stood'st to gaze,
The touching lesson such scene displays?

It should be thus, at an age like thine;
And it has been thus with me;

When the freshness of feeling and heart were mine,
As they never more can be:

Yet think not I ask thee to pity my lot,

Perhaps I see beauty where thou dost not.

Hast thou seen, in winter's stormiest day,
The trunk of a blighted oak,

Not dead, but sinking in slow decay,

Beneath time's resistless stroke,

Round which a luxuriant ivy had


And wreath'd it with verdure no longer its own?

Perchance thou hast seen this sight, and then,
As I, at thy years, might do,

Pass'd carelessly by, nor turn'd again

That scathed wreck to view:

But now I can draw from that mould'ring tree,
Thoughts which are soothing and dear to me.

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