"Sweet creature!" said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise;
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I have a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf;
If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself." “I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased
And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."
The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again :
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.
Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,
"Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver
wing;
Your robes are green and purple, there's a crest upon your head; Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!"
Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by,
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, and near and nearer drew,
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue-
Thinking only of her crested head-poor foolish thing! At
last,
Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den :
Within his little parlour-but she ne'er came out again!
And now, dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed;
Unto an evil counsellor close heart and ear and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
BY LORD BYRON.
[With vigour and boldness.]
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail,
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow-IN THE GLANCE OF THE LORD!
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. BY ALEXANDER POPE.
[Earnest and vigorous.]
Vital spark of heavenly flame!
QUIT, OH QUIT this mortal frame :
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.
Hark! they whisper; angels say,
"Sister spirit, come away.'
What is this absorbs me quite ?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes; it disappears!
HEAVEN OPENS ON MY EYES! MY EARS
WITH SOUNDS SERAPHIC RING:
LEND, LEND YOUR WINGS! I MOUNT! I FLY!
O GRAVE! WHERE IS THY VICTORY?
O DEATH! WHERE IS THY STING?
BY LORD BYRON.
[With care, and boldly.]
Thou whose spell can raise the dead,
Bid the prophet's form appear!
Samuel, raise thy buried head-
KING, BEHOLD THE PHANTOM SEER!
Earth yawn'd-he stood the centre of a cloud;
Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud;
Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye-
His hand was withered, and his veins were dry;
His foot in bony whiteness glittered there,
Shrunken, and sinewless, and ghastly bare.
From lips that moved not, and unbreathing frame,
Like cavern'd winds the hollow accents came :
Saul saw and fell to earth as falls the oak
At once, and blasted by the thunder stroke.
Why is my sleep disquieted?
Who is he that calls the dead?
Is it thou, O king? BEHOLD,
Bloodless are these limbs and cold.
Such are mine, and such shall be
Thine to-morrow when with me-
Ere the coming day is done
Such shalt thou be, such thy son.
Fare thee well-but for a day;
Then we mix our mouldering clay :
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low,
Pierced by shafts of many a bow;
And the falchion by thy side
To thy heart thy hand shall guide
CROWNLESS, BREATHLESS, HEADLESS FALL,
SON AND SIRE-THE HOUSE OF SAUL.
THE BURIAL OF MOSES.
"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth peor: but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." Deut. xxxiv. 6.
[Earnest and yet very carefully.]
By Nebo's lovely mountain,
On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale of the land of Moab
There lies a lonely grave;
And no one dug that sepulchre,
And no one saw it e'er,
For the angels of God upturned the sod,
And laid the dead man there.
That was the grandest funeral
That ever pass'd on earth;
But no man heard the trampling,
Or saw the train go forth.
Noiselessly as the day-light
Comes, when the night is done,
And the crimson streak on Ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun.
Noiselessly as the spring time
Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves,
So without sound of music,
Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountais crown The great procession swept.
Perchance the bald old eagle
On grey Beth-peor's height, Out of his rocky eyrie
Looked on the wondrous sight.
Perhaps the lion stalking
Still shuns that hallowed spot,
For beast and bird have seen and heard
That which mankind hath not.
But when the warrior dieth,
His comrades in the war,
With arms reversed, and muffled drum,
Follow the funeral car.
They show the banners taken;
They tell his battles won :
And after him lead his masterless steed,
While peals the minute-gun.
Amid the noblest of the land,
Men lay the sage to rest,
And give the bard an honoured place
With costly marble dress'd,
In the great minster transept
Where lights like glories fall;
And the choir sings, and the organ rings Along the emblazoned wall.
This was the bravest warrior
That ever buckled sword;
This the most gifted poet
That ever breathed a word.
And never earth's philosopher,
Traced with his golden pen
On the deathless page truth half so sage
As he wrote down for men.
And had he not high honour?
The hill-side for his pall,
To lie in state where angels wait
With stars for taper's tall;
And the dark rock pines like tossing plumes
Over his bier to wave,
And God's own hand, in that lonely land,
To lay him in the grave—
In that deep grave without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay
Shall break again-most wondrous thought,
Before the judgment-day;
And stand, with glory wrapped around,
On the hills he never trod;
And speak of the strife that won our life,
WITH THE INCARNATE FIRE OF GOD.
O lonely tomb on Moab's land!
O dark Beth-peor's hill!
Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.
God hath His mysteries of grace,
Ways that we cannot tell:
He hides them deep, like the secret sleep
Of him he loved so well.
DEATH OF ABSALOM.
By N. P. WILLIS.
[With care, earnestly.]
The waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low
On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still,
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse.
The reeds bent down the stream; the willow leaves,
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,
Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems,
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse,
|