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For some vile petty theft, some paltry sculi
There, midst the dangerous coil unmoved, she stood, 5 Pleading in broken words and piercing shrieks,
And hoarse, low, shivering sobs, the very cry
And those poor innocent babes between the stones 10 And my hot Arab's hoofs. We saved them all —
Thank heaven, we saved them all! but I said no
(WILLIAM COLLINS was born in Chichester, England, December 25, 1720, and died June 12, 1756. He was a man of sensitive nature and melancholy temperament. His last years were clouded with disease and insanity. Ilis poetical genius was of a high order, and many of his smaller poems are distinguished by imaginative splendor, an ethereal tone of sentiment, and subtle beauty of language. His “ Ode to the Passions” is a very popular poem, and deservedly so, for nothing can surpass its picturesque energy, brilliant descriptions, and vivid coloring.] 1 WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
From the supporting myrtles round, * Scudi is the plural of scudo, a silver coin nearly equivalent to a dollar.
They snatched her instruments of sound;
2 First, Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid:
E'en at the sound himself had made.
3 Next, Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings owned his secret stings;
And swept with hurried band the strings.
4 With woful measures, wan Despair
Low, sullen sounds! - his grief beguiled,
’T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.
5 But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure ?
Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
And where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair.
6 And longer had she sung — but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose :
And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And, ever and anon, he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat:
Dejected Pity, at his side,
Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien, While cach strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his
7 Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed;
Sad proof of thy distressful state !
And, now it courted Love; now, raving, called on Hate.
8 With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired;
In notes, by distance made more sweet,
And, dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels joined the sound:
(Round a holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace, and lonely musing,) In hollow murmurs died away.
9 But, O! how altered was its sprightlier tone,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung!
The oak-crowned Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen,
10 Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:
He, with viny crown advancing,
Amid the festal-sounding shades,
And he, amid his frolic play,
CXXX. THE CHURCH-YARD.
KARANSIN. NICOLAI KARAMSIN, a Russian historian and man of letters, was born in 1765, and died in 1826. His writings are numerous both in prose and verse, but his principal work, which was received with great favor by his countrymen, was a “ History of Russia," in twelve volumes.
FIRST VOICE. 1 How frightful the grave! how deserted and drear! With the howls of the storm-wind the creaks of the bier
And the white bones all clattering together!
SECOND VOICE. 2 How peaceful the grave ! its quiet how deep: Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep,
And flowerets perfume it with ether.
3 There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead, And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed,
And snakes in its nettle weeds hiss.
4 How lovely, how sweet the repose of the tomb: No tempests are there: -- but the nightingales come,
And sing their sweet chorus of bliss.
5 The ravens of night flap their wings o'er the grave: 'T is the vulture's abode; 't is the wolf's dreary cave,
Where they tear up the earth with their fangs.
6 There the cony at evening disports with his love, Or rests on the sod; while the turtles above,
Repose on the bough that o'erhangs.
7 There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath, And loathsome decay fill the dwelling of death;
The trees are all barren and bare !
SECOND VOICE. 8 O, soft are the breezes that play round the tomb, And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume,
With lies and jessamine fair.