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"I sank down on the couch to rest,
THE DREAM OF PETICIUS.
STILL lay the vessel like a sleeping thing; The calm waves with a quiet ripple died; The lazy breeze seemed all too faint to bring The cry of sea-birds dipping in the tide; The flagging streamer droopingly did cling
Unto the mast. The unruffled ocean wide Lay like a mirror, in whose depths were seen Each sunlit peak, and woody headland green.
More than a league they had not sailed that day; Yet on the coast was seen each sleeping hill; And island, that at noon before them lay,
In the calm evening lay before them still. The wearied seamen sped the time away
With snatches of blithe song or whistle shrill; And in a group apart, the people told Wild tales, and dreams, and dark traditions old.
The captain was a thoughtful man, whose prime
He from his life drew pleasant incident;
""T was while our vessel scudding to the breeze,
Fled, like a strong bird, from your pleasant shore, My dream was of these bright and stirless seas,
The flagging canvass, and the useless oar;
I saw, as now I see, in slumbrous ease
"While then I stood, as even now I stand,
I saw a boat push quickly from the land,
Till the Dictator quaked; or when he bore
In triumph trophies from ten nations quelled, Ardent and bold, whom myriads as he went Hailed as immortal and magnificent.
"They neared.-and marvelling yet more and more, I saw 'twas Pompey; not as I beheld Him in the senate, when he stood before
Fierce Sylla, and with taunts his wrath repelled,
"Not now as then-pale, thoughtful, ill at rest, His fate seemed warring with his mighty will; His hand on his contracted brow was prest,
As it the force of throbbing thought could still; Anon he wrapped his mantle o'er his breast
With a calm hand, as nerved for coming ill, Then with a calm, majestic air arose,
And claimed protection from his following foes."
Even while some pondering sate with thoughtful air,
White o'er the waters gleamed a little sail;On through the calm the striving pinnace bare ;
Then sorrow woke, and firmest brows grew pale, For worn and wearied, Pompey they behold, Even as that prophetic dream foretold.
Green Pelion's head, and those dim mountains hoar But the ship voyaged free to Mitylene. Resting afar; I saw yon glancing bird; And the low rippling of these waves I heard.
The sea for him by that dead calm was bound,
For now a strong wind filled the swelling sail, And shook the cordage with a rattling sound;
Forward the pennon floated on the gale, And the dark living waters heaved around;
No more the islands to the right they hail, Green Pelion's woody crown no more was seen;
LODORE, A SUMMER VISION.
OFT in the days of bright July,
And scorching walls, sun-smitten, glare —
Visions of beauty, green and cool —
I think of some old country hall,
I think of its dusk garden-bowers,
Its little plots of curious flowers,
Its casements wreathed with jessamine,
I think of mountains still and grey, Stretching in summer light away, Where the blue, cloudless skies repose Above the solitude of snows;
Of gleaming lakes, whose waters lie
And pastoral vales, and lonely rills,
And shepherd people on the hills,-
Who talketh of the days that were ;-
Let Mammon's sons with visage lean,
DU GUESCLIN'S RANSOM.
THE black Prince Edward sate at meat
Two hundred knights at the board were set,
They were mailed men in merry cheer,
And his laugh was loudest through the hall,
And some they told the jester's tale,
Till the hall of old Valenciennes
But 'mid the mirth and 'mid the wine
And heavy thoughts within his soul
Quoth Edward, "By my faith, this man
'My liege." said he, " my soul is dark
Even by the knights at thy right hand, And the fair dames in the hall!"
"He shall be free!" Prince Edward said, "No longer on a name,
So fair and far renowned as mine
Shall rest unknightly shame! Go fetch him from his dungeon deep,
Myself will do him right." Eftsoons into that banquet room
Was brought the prisoned knight. Quoth Edward, "Thou'rt a noble knight, Name now thy ransom fee, How small soe'er, by my good sword, Thy ransom it shall be!" Du Guesclin in his prison garb
Stood proudly in the ring,
And named such ransom as would free
Prince Edward's brow grew darkly red;
Sir Knight, I say thee nay;
The kings of France and fair Castile
Next morning, on his gallant steed,
In the sunshine shouted free,
THE HOUSEHOLD FESTIVAL.
"TWAS when the harvest-moon came slowly up, Broad, red and glorious o'er dark groves of pine;
In the hushed eve, when closed the flow'ret's cup,
Weaving a shadowy hower of odorous things,
Beauty and youth, and mirth whose buoyant wings
And, as the moon rose higher in the sky, Casting a mimic day on all around,
Then burst forth plaudits long and loud,
And they sate till set of sun,
And, in her joyful phrase, she told how he,
And the old knight said, as he poured the wine, Ere their next meeting, o'er the wave would come,
"Twas a fair deed nobly done."
Like a glad spirit, to partake their glee,
When the next harvest-moon lit up the pane,
Might his grey father unto tears be moved,
Her bright eyes sparkling with delight and love,
Of pleasant sojourn in some palmy grove,
And glorious shores and regions of old fame:
The heavy sea broke thundering on the shore,
And from the desert mountains came the roar
Rushed burning love, and sense of misery,
Another year-and the relentless wave
And when the harvest-moon came forth again,
Her light fell streaming through the window-pane
THE THREE AGES.
How beautiful are ye,
For in them I can see,
Thus pictured forth, a lesson that is full
It dwells in pleasant places;
Flowers, and fair butterflies, and pebbly brooks,
No cogitations dark, no wily schemes;
Of what its soul desires, with thoughtful trouble;
Knows not how days are lost
How love is but a bubble;
Knows not an aching forehead, a tired brain;
Life's cares have small companionship with thee!
A child no more! a maiden now,
A graceful maiden, with a gentle brow;
Oh, youth! how fair, how dear thou art;
Age, leaning on its staff, with feeble limb,
Grey hair, and vision dim,
Doth backward turn its eye,
And few and evil seem the days gone by!
Love, Hope, and Promise fair,
And seen them vanish into air,
Like rainbows on a summer's eve!
Riches unto themselves have taken wings;
Love flattered to deceive;
And Hope has been a traitor unto thee!
By days of weary sorrow, nights of fear,
Yet, venerable age,
Full of experience sage,
Well may the good respect thee, and the wise!
For thou hast living faith,
Triumphant over death,
Which makes the future lovely to thine eyes!
Thou knowest that, ere long,
"T will be made known to thee,
Why virtue is so weak, why evil strong;
And thus thou walkest on in cheerfulness,
Oh! beautiful are ye,
Age, Youth, and Infancy!
These are your names in Time,
When the eye darkens and the cheek grows pale; But in yon fairer clime,
Where Life is not a melancholy tale,
Where woe comes not, where never enters Death, Ye will have other names-Joy, Love, and Faith!
MOURNING ON EARTH.
SHE lay down in her poverty,
Fell trembling from her tongue. There were palace-houses round her; And pomp and pride swept by The walls of that poor chamber, Where she lay down to die.
Two were abiding with her,
Toil-stricken, though so young;
Fell from her trembling tongue. "Oh, Lord, thick clouds of darkness About my soul are spread, And the waters of affliction
Have gathered o'er my head! "Yet what is life? A desert,
Whose cheering springs are dry, A weary, barren wilderness!Still it is hard to die!
"Arise, put on the garments
Which the redeemed wore! Now sorrow hath no part in thee, Thou sanctified from sin!
“Awake and breathe the living air Of our celestial clime!
Awake to love which knows no change, Thou, who hast done with time!
"Awake, lift up thy joyful eyes,
See, all heaven's host appears; And be thou glad exceedingly,
Thou, who hast done with tears! "Awake! ascend! Thou art not now With those of mortal birth, — The living God hath touch'd thy lips, Thou who hast done with earth!"
THE TEMPLE OF JUGGERNAUT.
This is the most celebrated and sacred temple in Hindostan, and was built about the year 1198, by Rajah Anonda Bheem Deb, at a cost of 500,000 pounds sterling. The principal entrance is the Singha-Devar, or the "Lion-Gate," immediately in front of which is a beautiful column dedicated to the
The chief idol, called Juggernaut, is a huge unsightly figure of wood, bearing some distant resemblance to the human form: it is painted black, with a red mouth, and large red and white circles for eyes.
The ceremony of drawing the car takes place in June, and it is calculated that about 200,000 pilgrims, three-fourths of them females, annually resort to this festival, of whom at least 50,000 perish by sickness, hunger, and fatigue, and by voluntarily throwing themselves under its ponderous wheels.
THE winds are stirred with tumult-on the air
On roll his chariot-wheels, while every roll
Such are thy creeds, O man! when thou art given To thy own fearful nature-false and stern!
What were we now, but that all-pitying Heaven Sent us a holier, purer faith to learn?
Type of its message came the white-winged doveWhat is the Christian's creed?-Faith, Hope and Love.
Rich robes of Tyrian dye?