"Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the water of that cup

Then Abram came down softly from his home, And, looking to the right and left, went on; Took from his ample store a generous third, And laid it on his brother Zimri's pile.

Then Zimri rose, and caught him in his arms, And wept upon his neck, and kissed his cheek; And Abram saw the whole, and could not speak, Neither could Zimri. So they walked along Back to their homes, and thanked their God in prayer

That he had bound them in such loving bands.

spilled water gather up!"

For a moment stood the caliph as by doubtful passions stirred;

66

Then exclaimed, Forever sacred must remain a monarch's word.

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?" The vision raised its
head,

And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the
Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again, with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,

around him angry foes

LEIGH HUNT.

A PSALM OF LIFE. TELL me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.

I FOUND him sitting by a fountain-side,

Of which he borrowed some to quench his thirst,
And paid the nymph again as much in tears.
A garland lay him by, made by himself,
Of many several flowers, bred in the bay,
Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness
Delighted me but ever when he turned
His tender eyes upon them he would weep,
As if he meant to make them grow again.
Seeing such pretty helpless innocence
Dwell in his face, I asked him all his story.
He told me that his parents gentle died,
Leaving him to the mercy of the fields,
Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs,
Which did not stop their courses; and the sun,
Which still, he thanked him, yielded him his light.
Then took he up his garland, and did show
What every flower, as country people hold,
Did signify; and how all, ordered thus,
Expressed his grief; and to my thoughts did read
The prettiest lecture of his country art
That could be wished; so that methought I could
Have studied it. I gladly entertained him,
Who was as glad to follow.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

WHY THUS LONGING?

WHY thus longing, thus forever sighing,
For the far-off, unattained and dim,
While the beautiful, all round thee lying,
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn?
Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching,

All thy restless yearnings it would still;
Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching

Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill.

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes
In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth,
Purple and gushing: sweet are our escapes
From civic revelry to rural mirth;
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps;
Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth;
Sweet is revenge,
especially to women,

Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen.

'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels,
By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end
Tostrife; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,
Particularly with a tiresome friend;
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ;

Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world; and dear the school-boy spot We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, Is first and passionate love, —it stands alone, Like Adam's recollection of his fall;

The tree of knowledge has been plucked, — all 's known,

ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC.

AN ODE.

'T WAS at the royal feast, for Persia won By Philip's warlike son:

Aloft in awful state

The godlike hero sate

On his imperial throne:

His valiant peers were placed around,

Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound
(So should desert in arms be crowned);
The lovely Thais, by his side,
Sate like a blooming Eastern bride
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,

None but the brave,

None but the brave deserves the fair.

CHORUS.

Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,

None but the brave,

None but the brave deserves the fair.

Timotheus, placed on high
Amid the tuneful choir,

With flying fingers touched the lyre;
The trembling notes ascend the sky,

And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove,

Who left his blissful seats above
(Such is the power of mighty love).
A dragon's fiery form belied the god ;
Sublime on radiant spires he rode,

When he to fair Olympia pressed,
And while he sought her snowy breast;
Then round her slender waist he curled,
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign
of the world.

The listening crowd admire the lofty sound,
A present deity! they shout around;
A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound.
With ravished ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.

Soft pity to infuse :

He sung Darius, great and good,

By too severe a fate,

Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,

Fallen from his high estate,

And weltering in his blood; Deserted, at his utmost need, By those his former bounty fed ; On the bare earth exposed he lies, With not a friend to close his eyes. With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, Revolving in his altered soul

The various turns of chance below; And, now and then, a sigh he stole ; And tears began to flow.

CHORUS.

Revolving in his altered soul

The various turns of chance below; And, now and then, a sigh he stole; And tears began to flow.

The mighty master smiled, to see
That love was in the next degree;
'T was but a kindred sound to move,
For pity melts the mind to love.

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.
War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honor, but an empty bubble;

Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying:

If the world be worth thy winning, Think, O, think it worth enjoying! Lovely Thais sits beside thee,

Take the good the gods provide thee. The many rend the skies with loud applause ; So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair

Who caused his care,

And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,
Sighed and looked, and sighed again :

At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.

CHORUS.

The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair

Who caused his care,

And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, Sighed and looked, and sighed again : At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.

Now strike the golden lyre again :

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.

Break his bands of sleep asunder,

And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.

Hark, hark, the horrid sound

Has raised up his head;

As awaked from the dead,

And amazed, he stares around.

Revenge! revenge! Timotheus cries,

See the furies arise!

See the snakes that they rear,

How they hiss in their hair,

And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Behold a ghastly band,

Each a torch in his hand!

Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain,
And unburied remain,
Inglorious on the plain :