watchful assiduities; the last testimonies of expiring love; the feeble, faltering, thrilling (oh! how thrilling!) pressure of the hand; the last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the threshold of existence; the faint, faltering accents struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection! Aye, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that being who can never, never, never return to be soothed by thy contrition! If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged in thought, word or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart that now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul; then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear; more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. Ex. LXXIII.-THE GLADIATOR. THEY led a lion from his den, The lord of Afric's sun-scorched plain; His bright eye nought of lightning lacked; JONES. They brought a dark-haired man along, Whose limbs with gyves of brass were bound; Youthful he seemed, and bold, and strong, And yet unscathed of wound. Blithely he stepped among the throng, A dark eye, such as courts the path Then shouted the plebeian crowd,- A voice,-"Be the bold man unbound! Joy was upon that dark man's face; 'He has a martial heart,' thou sayest ;- For home, and country, babes, and wife !" And thus I for the strife prepare: The Thracian falchion to me bring; And he has bared his shining blade, And springs he on the shaggy foe; His long and loud death-howl is made; "Kneel down, Rome's emperor beside !" "Thou art the bravest youth that ever tried And from our presence forth thou go'st Then flushed his cheek, but not with pride, Proud Danube's waters to the sea: No Roman wealth or rank can give My wife sits at the cabin door, With throbbing heart and swollen eyes;— She bids my tender babes deplore I can not let those cherubs stray He's gone!-No golden bribes divide Ex. LXXIV.-THE SHIPWRECK. HER giant form, O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm, Majestically calm, would go, 'Mid the deep darkness, white as snow! WILSON. But gently now the small waves glide Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast. Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this hour is her last! Five hundred souls, in one instant of dread, Are hurried o'er the deck; And fast the miserable ship Becomes a lifeless wreck. Her keel hath struck upon a hidden rock; Her planks are torn asunder; And down come her masts with a reeling shock, And a hideous crash like thunder; Her sails are draggled in the brine, That gladdened late the skies; And her pendant that kissed the fair moonshine, Down many a fathom lies! Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues Gleamed softly from below, And flung a warm and sunny flush O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow, An hour before her death; And sights of home with sighs disturbed And his wife,-by turns she wept and smiled, He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll, The whole ship's crew are there: Now is the ocean's bosom bare, No image meets my wandering eye But the new-risen sun, and the sunny sky. Though the night shades are gone, yet a vapor Bedims the waves so beautiful; While a low and melancholy moan Mourns for the glory that hath flown! dull Ex. LXXV.-A FRENCHMAN'S RECEIPT FOR RATSBAÑE. A FRENCHMAN once, who was a merry wight, His supper done, some scraps of cheese were left, Sans ceremonie, soon the rats all ran, ANON. |