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A GRECIAN ANECDOTE.-Mllna.
How Sparta thirsted after orient gold,
And bartered faith for wealth she dared not use, Is as severe a tale as e'er was told The pride of man to conquer and confuse.
Therefore forget not what that nature was,
When sought the Ionian Aristagoras
How thick the perils of that far emprise, How dim the vista cunningly displayed,
To people as to prince, appeal was vain, —
But the wise envoy would not bend again
A suppliant at the regal hearth he stood,
Because about them, in her careless mood,
Ten — twenty —forty talents rose the bait; —
That gazed attentive on the grave debate,
Fet fifty now had well secured the prey,
And a quick spirit uttered, "Come away,
THB DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
Not unaccepted such pure omen came;
That gentle voice the present God revealed, — And back the Ionian chief returned in shame, Checked by the virtue of that simple shield.
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. — Bryant.
The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows
brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered
leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's
tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day. •
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain
Calls not, from out the gloomy eai ih, the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.
And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home,
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side:In the cold, moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, So gentle, and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
206 THE CORAL GROVE.
THE CORAL GROVE. — Percival.
Deep in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove;Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine, Far down in the green and grassy brine. The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow;From coral rocks the sea-plants lift Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow;The water is calm and still below, For the winds and the waves are absent there, And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air;There, with its waving blade of green, The sea-flag streams through the silent water, And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter;There, with a light and easy motion, The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea,
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean Are bending like corn on the upland lea:And life, in rare and beautiful forms, Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms Has made the top of the waves his own. And when the ship from his fury flies, When the myriad voices of ocean roar, When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on the shore;Then, far below, in the peaceful sea, The purple mullet and gold-fish rove Where the waters murmur tranquilly Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.
A HAPPY LIFE.— Sir Henry Wottm.
How happy is he born and taught,
Whose armor is his honest thought,
Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepared for death, Untied unto the world by care
Of public fame or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise, Nor vice; hath ever understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise, Nor rules of state, but rules of good;
Who hath his life from rumors freed;Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Who God doth late and early pray
And entertains the harmless day
This man is freed from servile bands
Lord of himself, though not of lands,