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Gave me stern satisfaction. Now he's dead,
And his lips move not; yet his voice's image
Flashed such a dreadful darkness o'er my soul,
I would not mount Numidia's throne again,
Did every night bring such a scream as that.
Oh, yes, 'twas I that caused that living one,
And therefore did its echo seem so frightful.
If 'twere to do again, I would not kill thee;
Wilt thou not be contented?-But thou say'st,
"My father was to thee a father also;

He watched thy infant years, he gave thee all
That youth could ask, and scarcely manhood came
Than came a kingdom also: yet didst thou—”
Oh, I am faint!—they have not brought me food-
How did I not perceive it until now?

Hold,-my Numidian cruse is still about me-
No drop within-Oh, faithful friend! companion
Of many a weary march and thirsty day,
'Tis the first time that thou hast failed my lips.—
Gods! I'm in tears!-I did not think of weeping.
Oh, Marius, wilt thou ever feel like this?—
Ha! I behold the ruins of a city;

And on a craggy fragment sits a form
That seems in ruins also: how unmoved,

How stern he looks! Amazement! it is Marius!
Ha! Marius, think'st thou now upon Jugurtha?
He turns! he's caught my eye! I see no more!

XI. THE GREEK MYTHOLOGY.
(WORDSWORTH.)

The following extract from the "Excursion" details with remarkable "philo.
sophical truth and poetical beauty" the mode in which abstract ideas came
to be regarded by the imaginative Greek as tangible forms, and the fancies
of the mind turned into the shapes of gods and goddesses.
William Wordsworth was a native of Cockermouth, in Cumberland. He was an
intimate friend of Coleridge and Southey, and on the death of the latter in
1843 he succeeded to the Laureateship. Born 1770; died 1850.

THE lively Grecian, in a land of hills,

Rivers and fertile plains, and sounding shores,
Under a cope of sky more variable,

Could find commodious place for every god,

Promptly received, as prodigally brought,
From the surrounding countries, at the choice
Of all adventurers. With unrivalled skill,
As nicest observation furnished hints
For studious fancy, his quick hand bestowed
On fluent operations a fixed shape;
Metal or stone, idolatrously served.

And yet triumphant o'er this pompous show
Of art, this palpable array of sense,
On every side encountered; in despite
Of the gross fictions chanted in the streets
By wandering rhapsodists; and in contempt
Of doubt and bold denial hourly urged
Amid the wrangling schools—a SPIRIT hung,
Beautiful region, q'er thy towns and farms,
Statues and temples, and memorial tombs.

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In that fair clime, the lonely herdsman, stretched
On the soft grass through half a summer's day,
With music lulled his indolent repose;

And in some fit of weariness, if he,

When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear
A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds
Which his poor skill could make, his fancy fetched
Even from the blazing chariot of the sun

A beardless youth, who touched a golden lute
And filled the illumined groves with ravishment.
The nightly hunter, lifting a bright eye

Up towards the crescent moon, with grateful heart
Called on the lovely wanderer, who bestowed
That timely light, to share his joyous sport.
And hence a beaming goddess with her nymphs,
Across the lawn and through the darksome grove
(Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes

By echo multiplied from rock or cave)

Swept in the storm of chase; as moon and stars
Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven,

When winds are blowing strong. The traveller slaked
His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and thanked
The Naiad. Sunbeams, upon distant hills

Gliding apace, with shadows in their train,
Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed
Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly.

The Zephyrs fanning, as they passed, their wings,
Lacked not, for love, fair objects whom they wooed
With gentle whisper. Withered boughs grotesque,
Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age,
From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth
In the low vale or on steep mountain side;
And sometimes intermixed with stirring horns
Of the live deer, or goat's depending beard,-
These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood
Of gamesome deities; or Pan himself,
The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring god.

XII. THE CITY PIGEON.

(WILLIS.)

STOOP to my window, thou beautiful dove!
Thy daily visits have touched my love.
I watch thy coming, and list the note
That stirs so low in thy mellow throat;
And my joy is high

To catch the glance of thy gentle eye.

Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves,

And forsake the wood with its freshened leaves?

Why dost thou haunt the sultry street,

When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet? How canst thou bear

This noise of people, this sultry air?

Thou alone of the feathered race

Dost look unscared on the human face;

Thou alone, with a wing to flee,

Dost love with man in his haunts to be;
And the "gentle dove"

Has become a name for trust and love.

A holy gift is thine, sweet bird!

Thou'rt named with childhood's earliest word!

Thou'rt linked with all that is fresh and wild In the prisoned thoughts of the city child; And thy glossy wings

Are its brightest image of moving things.

It is no light chance. Thou art set apart
Wisely by Him who has tamed thy heart,
To stir the love for the bright and fair,
That else were sealed in this crowded air;
I sometimes dream

Angelic rays from thy pinions stream.

Come, then, ever, when daylight leaves
The page I read, to my humble eaves,
And wash thy breast in the hollow spout,
And murmur thy low sweet music out!
I hear and see

Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in thee!

XIII.-THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.
(LONGFELLOW.)

SOMEWHAT back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat.
Across its antique portico

Tall poplar trees their shadows throw;
And from its station in the hall,
An ancient time-piece says to all-
"For ever-never!

Never-for ever!"

Half way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands

From its case of massive oak,

Like a monk, who, under his cloak,

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!

With sorrowful voice to all who pass"For ever-never!

Never-for ever!"

By day its voice is low and light;

But, in the silent dead of night,

Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,

And seems to say at each chamber-door—
"For ever-never!

Never-for ever!"

Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude

Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood;
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe-
"For ever-never!

Never for ever!"

In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality;

His great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board;
But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning time-piece never ceased-
"For ever-never!

Never-for ever!"

There groups of merry children played,
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;
O precious hours! O golden prime,
And affluence of love and time!

Even as a miser counts his gold,

Those hours the ancient time-piece told"For ever-never!

Never-for ever!"

From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night;
There, in that silent room below,

The dead lay in his shroud of snow;

And in the hush that followed the prayer,

Was heard the old clock on the stair"For ever-never!

Never-for ever!"

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