35. THE NEGLECTED CHILD. Bayly.

I never was a favorite

My mother never smiled
On me, with half the tenderness
That blessed her fairer child.
I've seen her kiss my sister's cheek,
While fondled on her knee;
I've turned away to hide my tears,-
There was no kiss for me!

And yet I strove to please, with all
My little store of sense;
I strove to please, and infancy
Can rarely give offense.

But when my artless efforts met
A cold, ungentle check,
I did not dare to throw myself,
In tears, upon her neck.

How blessed are the beautiful!
Love watches o'er their birth;
Oh beauty! in my nursery

:

I learned to know thy worth:For even there, I often felt

Forsaken and forlorn,

And wished-for others wished it tooI never had been born!

I'm sure I was affectionate,—

But in my sister's face,

There was a look of love that claimed

A smile, or an embrace.

But when I raised my lip, to meet
The pressure children prize,

None knew the feelings of my heart,

They spoke not in my eyes.

But oh! that neart too keenly felt
The anguish of neglect;

I saw my sister's lovely form

With gems and roses decked;
I did not covet them; but oft,
When wantonly reproved,
I envied her the privilege
Of being so beloved

But soon a time of triumph came-
A time of sorrow too,- -

For sickness o'er my sister's form
Her venomed mantle threw :—
The features once so beautiful,
Now wore the hue of death;
And former friends shrank fearfully
From her infectious breath.

"Twas then, unwearied, day and night

I watched beside her bed,

And fearlessly upon my breast
I pillowed her poor head.

She lived!-she loved me for my care!—
My grief was at an end;

I was a lonely being once,
But now I have a friend!

Now stood Eliza on the wood-crowned height, O'er Minden's plain, spectatress of the fight; Sought with bold eye, amid the bloody strife, Her dearer self, the partner of her life; From hill to hill the rushing host pursued, And viewed his banner, or believed she viewed. Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread, Fast by his hand one lisping boy she led; And one fair girl, amid the loud alarm, Slept on her kerchief, cradled by her arm; While round her brows bright beams of honor dart, And love's warm eddies circle round her heart. Near and more near the intrepid beauty pressed,Saw through the driving smoke his dancing crest, Heard the exulting shout, "They run! they run !" "Great God!" she cried, "he's safe! the battle's won!” A ball now hisses through the airy tides, (Some fury wings it, and some demon guides,) Parts the fine locks, her graceful head that deck, Wounds her fair ear and sinks into her neck; The red stream issuing from her azure veins, Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains.Ah me!" she cried, and sinking on the ground, Kissed her dear babes, regardless of the wound.

37.

"Oh, cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn!
Wait, gushing life, oh, wait my love's return!-
Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far!
The angel, pity, shuns the walks of war!

Oh, spare ye war-hounds, spare their tender age,
On me, on me," she cried, "exhaust your rage!"
Then with weak arms her weeping babes caressed,
And sighing, hid them in her blood-stained vest.
From tent to tent the impatient warrior flies,
Fear in his heart, and frenzy in his eyes;
Eliza's name along the camp he calls,

Eliza echoes through the canvass walls;

Quick through the murmuring gloom his footseps tread
O'er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead,
Vault o'er the plain, and in the tangled wood,
Lo! dead Eliza, weltering in her blood!—
Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds,
With open arms and sparkling eyes he bounds:-
"Speak low," he cries, and gives his little hand,
"Eliza sleeps upon the dew-cold sand;
Poor weeping babe with bloody fingers pressed,
And tried with pouting lips her milkless breast;
Alas! we both with cold and hunger quake-
Why do you weep?-Mamma will soon awake."
"She'll wake no more!" the hopeless mourner cried,
Upturned his eyes, and clasped his hands and sighed;
Stretched on the ground awhile entranced he lay,
And pressed warm kisses on the lifeless clay;
And then upsprung with wild convulsive start,
And all the father kindled in his heart;

"Oh heavens!" he cried, "my first rash vow forgive!
These bind to earth, for these I pray to live!"

Round his chill babes he wrapped his crimson vest,
And clasped them sobbing to his aching breast.

BETH GELERT; OR, THE DEATH OF THE GRAYHOUND.

Spencer.

The spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smiled the morn,

And many a brach and many a hound,
Obeyed Llewellyn's horn.

And still he drew a louder blast,
And gave a lustier cheer;

"Come Gelert, come-wert never last
Llewellyn's horn to hear.

Oh where does faithful Gelert roam,
The flower of all his race,

So true, so brave; a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase?"

In sooth he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John;

But now no Gelert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.

That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare,
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased Llewellyn homeward hied,
When near the portal gate,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.

But when he gained his castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood,

The hound all o'er was smeared with gore,
His lips, his fangs, ran blood.

Llewellyn gazed with much surprise,
Unused such looks to meet,

His favorite checked his joyful guise,
And crouched and licked his feet.

Onward in haste Llewellyn past,
And on went Gelert too,
And still where'er his eyes he cast
Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.

O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
With blood-stained covert rent,
And all around, the walls and ground,
With recent blood besprent!

He called his child; no voice replied;
He searched with terror wild:
Blood, blood he found on every side,
But no where found the child.

'Hell-hound! my child by thee's devoured,"
The frantic father cried,

And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side!

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,

Some slumberer wakened nigh-
What words the parent's joy can tell-
He hears his infant cry!

Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread,
But the same couch beneath
Lay a gaunt wolf all torn and dead,
Tremendous still in death!

Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain?
For now the truth was clear,
His gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewellyn's heir.

38.

MARCO BOZZARIS, THE EPAMINONDAS OF MODERN
GREECE.-.
-Halleck.

His last words were-" To die for liberty is a pleasure and not a pain."

At midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour,
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power.

In dreams through camp and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring,

Then pressed that monarch's throne-a king;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

As Eden's garden bird.

An hour passed on-the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last :