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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,
He burst through ranks of fighting men;
His flanks all blood and foam,
The wolves they howl'd and whin'd;
Thunder'd his flying feet:
He rushed through the gate of Tusculum,
And paus'd not from his race,
Till he stood before his master's door
And women rent their tresses
For their great prince's fall;
Aud old men girt on their old swords,
But like a graven image,
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;
And thou and I will have revenge
For thy good Lord this day."
THE STRANGER'S HEART.
THE stranger's heart! Oh! wound it not!
In the green shadow of thy tree,
The stranger finds no rest with thee.
Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves
Thou think'st thy children's laughing play
Then are the stranger's thoughts oppress'd-
Thou think'st it sweet when friend with friend
Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land-
THE THUNDER STORM.
LET coward Guilt, with pallid fear,
Protected by that Hand, whose law
In the thick clouds' tremendous gloom,
Through nature's ever-varying scene,
The one eternal end of Heaven
With like beneficent effect
O'er flaming ether glows,
As when it tunes the linnet's voice,
By reason taught to scorn those fears
Thy life may all the tenderest care
And delegated angels round
Their guardian wings extend.
When through creation's vast expanse
Unmov'd may'st thou the final storm
That ushers in the glad serene
Of everlasting day.
Dost thou not love, in the season of spring,
Oh! dost thou not love to think on them?
And dost thou not love, when leaves are greenest,
When in the silence of moonlight thou leanest,
To see, by that gentle and peaceful beam,
And oh! in a lovely autumnal day,
When leaves are changing before thee,
It should be thus, at an age like thine;
When the freshness of feeling and heart were mine,
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,
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,
Pass'd carelessly by, nor turn'd again
That scathed wreck to view:
But now I can draw from that mould'ring tree,