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"Tis a sharper, who stakes his penury

Against thy plenty-who takes thy ready cash,
And pays thee nought, but wishes, hopes, and promises,
The currency of idiots-injurious bankrupt,
That gulls the easy creditor!-To-morrow!

It is a period nowhere to be found

In all the hoary registers of Time,
Unless perchance in the fool's calendar.
Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society
With those who own it. No, my Horatio,
"Tis fancy's child, and folly is its father;
Wrought of such stuff as dreams are, and as baseless
As the fantastic visions of the evening.

But soft, my friend-arrest the present moment:
For be assured they all are arrant tell-tales:
And though their flight be silent, and their path
Trackless, as the winged couriers of the air,
They post to heaven, and there record thy folly;
Because, though stationed on the important watch,
Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel,
Didst let them pass unnoticed, unimproved.
And know, for that thou slumberest on the guard,
Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar
For every fugitive; and when thou thus
Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal.
Of hoodwinked justice, who shall tell thy audit?
Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio,
Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings.

'Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more precious Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain.

Oh! let it not elude thy grasp; but, like

The good old patriarch upon record,

Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee.

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On Horeb's rock the prophet stood —
The Lord before him passed;

A hurricane in angry mood

Swept by him strong and fast;
The forest fell before its force,

The rocks were shivered in its course,

God was not in the blast;

Announcing danger, wreck, and death,
'Twas but the whirlwind of his breath

It ceased. The air grew mute-a cloud
Came, muffling up the sun;

When, through the mountain, deep and loud
An earthquake thundered on;
The frighted eagle sprang in air,
The wolf ran howling from his lair,—
God was not in the storm;

"Twas but the rolling of his car,

The trampling of his steeds from far.

Twas still again, and nature stood
And calmed her ruffled frame:
When swift from heaven a fiery flood
To earth devouring came :
Down to the depth the ocean fled;
The sickening sun looked wan and dead;
Yet God filled not the flame,-
Twas but the terror of his eye
That lightened through the troubled sky

At last a voice all still and small
Rose sweetly on the ear,

Yet rose so shrill and clear, that all
In heaven and earth might hear:
It spoke of peace, it spoke of love,
It spoke as angels speak above,—
And God himself was there;
For oh! it was a father's voice,
That bade the trembling world rejoice.

31. BYRON.-Pollok.

He touched his harp, and nations heard, entrancou As some vast river of unfailing source,

Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed,
And oped new fountains in the human heart.
Where fancy halted, weary in her flight,

In other men, his, fresh as morning rose,

And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home,
Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great,
Beneath their argument seemed struggling whiles;
He from above descending, stooped to touch
The loftiest thought; and proudly stooped, as though
It scarce deserved his verse. With nature's self
He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest
At will with all her glorious majesty.
He laid his hand upon "the ocean's mane,"
And played familiar with his hoary locks.
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Appenines;
And with the thunder talked, as friend to friend;
And wove his garland of the lightning's wing,
In sportive twist-the lightning's fiery wing,
Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God,
Marching upon the storm in vengeance seemed
Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung
His evening song beneath his feet, conversed.
Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds his sisters were;
Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and storms
His brothers-younger brothers, whom he scarce
As equals deemed.

As some fierce comet of tremendous size,

To which the stars did reverence as it passed;

So he through learning and through fancy took

His flight sublime; and on the loftiest top

Of fame's dread mountain sat; not soiled, and worn,
As if he from the earth had labored up;

But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair,

He looked, which down from higher regions came,
And perched it there, to see what lay beneath.
Great man! the nations gazed and wondered much,
And praised and many called his evil good.
Wits wrote in favor of his wickedness:
And kings to do him honor took delight.
Thus full of titles, flattery, honor, fame;
Beyond desire, bevond ambition full,-

He died-he died of what? Of wretchedness.
Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump

Of fame; drank early, deeply drank; drank draughte
That common millions might have quenched-then died
Of thirst, because there was no more to drink.

32. SONG OF MAC MURROUGH.-Scott.

Mist darkens the mountains, night darkens the vale, But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael: A stranger commanded-it sunk on the land,

It has frozen each heart, and benumbed every hand!

The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust,
The bloodless claymore is but reddened with rust;
On the hill, or the glen, if a gun should appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.

The deeds of our sires, if our bards should rehearse,
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse!
Be mute every string, and be hushed every tone,
That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown.

But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past,
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last;
Glenaladale's peaks are illumined with the rays,
And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze.

Oh high-minded Moray!-the exiled!-the dear!-
In the blush of the dawning the standard uprear,
Wide, wide, on the winds of the north let it fly,
Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh!

Ye sons of the strong, when the dawning shall break,
Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake?
That dawn never beamed on your forefathers' eye
But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.

Awake on your hills, on your islands awake, Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake! 'Tis the bugle--but not for the chase is the call; "Tis the pibroch's shrill summons-but not to the hall

"Tis the summons of heroes to conquest or death, When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath, They call to the dirk, the claymore, the targe,

To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.

Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his ire!
May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire!
Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore
Or die like your sires and endure it no more!

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33. WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER ?-Doane.

What is that, mother?

The lark, my child.

The morn has just looked out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays,
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise

What is that, mother?

The dove, my son.—

And that low sweet voice, like a widow's moan.

Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure by that lonely nest,

As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,

In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, mother?

The eagle, my boy
Proudly careering his course of joy,

Firm, in his own mountain vigor relying;
Breasting the dark storm; the red bolt defying,
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine;
Onward, and upward, and true to the line.

What is that, mother?

The swan, my love.

He is floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh;

He is floating down, by himself, to die

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