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Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'er- Be copy now to men of grosser blood, whelm it,

And teach them how to war! And you, good As fearfully, as doth a galled rock

yeomen, O’erhang and jutty his confounded base, Whose limbs were made in England, show us Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.

here Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril The mettle of your pasture ; let us swear wide;

That you are worth your breeding: wbich I Hold hard the breath, and bend up every

doubt not ; spirit

For there is none of you so mean and base, To his full heightl-On, on, you noblest English, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. Whose blood is set from fathers of war-proof! I see you stand like greyhounds in the Fathers, that like so many Alexanders,

slips, Have, in these parts, from morn till even Straining upon the start. The game's afoot; fought,

Follow your spirit: and upon this charge, And sheath'd their swords for lack of argu- Cry—God for Harry! England! and Saint ment.

George! Dishonour not your mothers; now attest,

[Exeunt. Alarum, and chambers go off. l'hat those whom you call'd fathers, did beget

WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. you!

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A SPANISH BULL-FIGHT.

(From "Childe Harold,'' Canto 1.) THE lists are oped, the spacious area None through their cold disdain are doomed clear’d,

to die, Thousands on thousands piled are seated As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's round;

sad archery. Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard,

Hush'd is the din of tongues-on gallant No vacant space for lated wight is found:

steeds,

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• The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd,

Thousands on thousands piled are seated round.”

Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames

abound, Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye, Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound;

With milk-white crests, gold spur, and

light-poised lance, Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, And lowly bending to the lists advance;

toils repay.

Rich are their scarfs, their charges featly Nor the wild plunging of the tortured prance :

horse; If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, Though man and man's avenging arms asThe crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely

sail, glance,

Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. Best prize of better acts, they bear away, One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their corse ;

Another, hideous sight! unseam'd appears;

His gory chest unveils life's panting source, In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd,

Though death-struck, still his feeble frame But all afoot, the light-lim'd Matadore

he rears; Stands in the centre, eager to invade Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unThe lord of lowing herds; but not before

harm'd he bears. The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er,

Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the Lest aught unseen should lurk, to thwart

last, his speed:

Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances Can man achieve without his friendly

brast, steed

And foes disabled in the brutal fray: Alas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and And now the Matadores around him play, bleed.

Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready

brand : Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal Once more through all he bursts his thunderfalls,

ing way. The den expands, and Expectation mute Vain rage: the mantle quits the cunning Gapes round the silent circle's peopled

hand, walls.

Wraps his fierce eye; 'tis past; he sinks upon Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty

the sand. brute,

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,

THE INGRATITUDE OF

TUDE
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe;
Here, there, he points his threatening front,

REPUBLICS.
to suit

(From "Julins Casar," Act I., Scene 1.) His first attack, wide waving to and fro

AR. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. brings he home?

What tributaries follow him to Rome, Sudden be stops; his eye is fix'd : away, To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels ? Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the You blocks, you stones, you worse than sensespear:

less things! Now is thy time, to perish, or display 0, you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, The skill that yet may check his mad career. Knew you not Pompey ? Many a time and oft With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements, veer;

To towers and windows, yea, to chimneyOn foams the bull, but not unscathed he tops, goes;

Your infants in your arms, and there have sat Streams from his flank the crimson torrent The live-long day, with patient expectation, clear;

To see great Pompey pass the streets of He flies, he wheels, distracted with his Rome: tbroes;

And when you saw his chariot but appear, Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellow. Have you not made an universal shout, ings speak his woes.

That Tyber trembled underneath her banks,

To hear the replication of your sounds, Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, Made in her concave shores ?

And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood ?

Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this ingrati.
tude.

WILLIAM SHAKSPERE.

Be gone;

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.
JOHERE are seven pillars of Gothic mould, And in each pillar there is a ring,
P In Chillon's dungeon's deep and old, And in each ring there is a chain;
There are seven columns, massy and grey, That iron is a cankering thing,
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray,

For in these limbs its teeth remain,

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I lost their long and heavy score,
When my last brother droop'd and died,
And I lay living by his side.
They chained us each to a column stone,
And we were three-yet, each alone;
We could not move a single pace,
We could not see each other's face,
But with that pale and livid light
That made us strangers in our sight;
And thus together—yet apart,
Fettered in band, but joined in heart;
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth
Of the pure elements of earth,
To hearken to each other's speech,
And each turn comforter to each
With some new hope or legend old,
Or song heroically bold;
But even these at length grew cold.
Our voices took a dreary tone,
An echo of the dungeon stone,

A grating sound-not full and free
As they of yore were wont to be:

It might be fancy—but to me
They never sounded like our own.

ENSIGN EPPS.
NSIGN Epps at the battle of Flanders

Sowed a seed of glory and duty
That flowers and flames in height and beauty,
Like a crimson lily with a heart of gold,
To-day when the wars of Ghent are old
And buried as deep as their dead com-

manders. Ensign Epps was the color bearerNo matter on which side, Philip or Earl; Their cause was the spell—his deed was the

pearl. Scarce more than a lad he had been a sharer That day in the wildest work of the field, He was wounded and spent and the fight was

lost, His comrades were slain or a scattered host, But stainless and scathless out of the strife He had carried his colors safer than life. By the river's brink, without a weapon or

shield, He faced the victors. The thick heart mist He dashed from his eyes, and the silk he

kissed Ere he held it aloft in the setting sun, As proudly as if the fight were won. And he smiled when they ordered him to

yield; Ensign Epps, with his broken blade, Cut the silk from his gilded staff, Which he poised like a spear till the charge

was made, And hurled at the leader with a laugh. Then round his breast, like the scarf of love, He tied the colors of his heart above, And plunged in his armor into the tide, And there, in his dress of honor, he died. What are the lessons your kinglings teach? And what is the text of your proud com

manders? Out of the centuries heroes reach With the scroll of a deed, with the word of a

story Of one man's truth and of all men's glory, Like Ensign Epps at the battle of Flanders.

John BOYLE O'REILLY,

*

It might be months, or years, or days,

I kept no count-I took no note, I had no hope my eyes to raise,

And clear them of their dreary mote;
At last men came to set me free,

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where,
It was at length the same to me.
Fetter'd or fetterless to be,
• I learned to love despair.
And thus when they appeared at last,
And all my bonds aside were cast,
These heavy walls to me had grown
A hermitage-and all my own!
And half I felt as they were come
To tear me from a second home:
With spiders I had friendship made,
And watched them in their sullen trade,
Had seen the mice by moonlight play,
And why should I feel less than they?
We were all inmates of one place,
And I, the monarch of each race,
Had power to kill—yet, strange to tell!
In quiet we had learned to dwell-
My very chains and I grew friends,
So much a long communion tends
To make us what we are:-even I
Regained my freedom with a sigh.

GEORGE GORDOX, LORD BYRON,

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Into the valley of death

Rode the six hundred; For up came an order which

Some one had blundered. “Forward, the light brigade! Take the guns!” Nolan said: Into the valley of death,

Rode the six hundred.

“Forward the light brigade !" No man was there dismayedNot though the soldier knew

Some one had blundered: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and dieInto the valley of death,

Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed all at once in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wondered.
Plunged in the battery smoke,
With many a desp'rate stroke
The Russian line they broke ;
Then they rode back, but not-

Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them,

Volleyed and thundered.
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
Those that had fought so well
Came from the jaws of death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade ?
Oh the wild charge they made !

All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the light brigade,
Noble six hundred !

ALFRED TEXNYSON.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them,

Volleyed and thundered.
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well;
Into the jaws of death,
Into the mouth of hell,

Rode the six hundred.

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