PATHETIC AND ENTERTAINING. 1. THE DESTRUCTION OF SENACHERIB.—Byron. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 2. THE FIELD OF GILBOA.-Knox. The sun of the morning looked forth from his throne, And beamed on the face of the dead and the dying; For the yell of the strife, like the thunder, had flown And red on Gilboa the carnage was lying. And there lay the husband that lately was prest To the beautiful cheek that was tearless and ruddy; But the claws of the eagle were fixed in his breast, And the beak of the vulture was busy and bloody. And there lay the son of the widowed and sad, On the delicate limbs that had ceased not to quiver. And there came the daughter, the delicate child, To hold up the head that was breathless and hoary; And there came the maiden, all frantic and wild, To kiss the loved lips that were gasping and gory. And there came the consort that struggled in vain To stem the red tide of a spouse that bereft her; And there came the mother that sunk 'mid the slain, To weep o'er the last human stay that was left her. Oh! bloody Gilboa, a curse ever lie Where the king and his people were slaughtered together May the dew and the rain leave thy herbage to die, Thy flocks to decay, and thy forests to wither! 3. THE SHIELD.-Moore. Oh! did you not hear a voice of death? Was it a wailing bird of the gloom, Which shrieks on the house of wo all night! Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb, To howl and to feed till the glance of light? "Twas not the death-bird's cry from the wood, See! how the red, red lightning strays, Where hangs the shield of this son of death! That shield is blushing with murderous stains, Oft by that yew on the blasted field, While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging shield Sings to the raving spirit of night! 4. THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF.-Hemans. "Oh call brother back to me, my I cannot play alone! The summer comes with flower and bee,- The butterfly is glancing bright Across the sunbeam's track; I care not now to chase its flight- The flowers run wild-the flowers we sowed Our vine is drooping with its load— Oh call him back to me !" "He would not hear my voice, fair child! He may not come to thee; The face that once like spring-time smiled, The rose's brief, bright light of joy, Go, thou must play alone, my boy! "And has he left his birds and flowers! And through the long, long summer hours, And by the brook, and in the glade, 5. THE GIPSY WANDERER.-Anonymous 'Twas night, and the farmer, his fireside near, O'er a pipe quaffed his ale, stout and old; The hinds were in bed, when a voice struck his ear, "Let me in, I beseech you!" just so ran the prayer— "Let me in!—I am dying with cold." To his servant, the farmer cried-" Sue, move thy feet, For our chimney will not lose a jot of its heat, At that instant a gipsy-girl, humble in pace- He, starting, exclaimed, "wicked fiend, quit this place! They have bowed me almost to the grave!" "Good sir, as our tribe passed the churchyard below, I just paused, the tuft graves to survey: I fancied the spot where my mother lies low, "This is craft!"-cried the farmer, "If I judge aright With a shriek on the floor the young gipsy-girl fell; "Help," cried Susan, "your child to uprear! Your long stolen child!-she remembers you well, And the terrors and joys in her bosom which swell, Are too mighty for nature to bear!" Oh! heard you yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud; In silence they reached over mountain and moor, "And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse, "I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her shroud,” Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud; "And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!" Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween; "I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her grief, |