I well could count their causes o'er:
And what with fury, fear, and wrath,
The tortures which beset my path,
Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress,
Thus bound in nature's nakedness;
Sprung from a race whose rising blood
When stirred beyond its calmer mood,
And trodden hard upon, is like
The rattlesnake's, in act to strike,
What marvel if this worn-out trunk

Beneath its woes a moment sunk?

The earth gave way, the skies rolled round,
I seemed to sink upon the ground;

But erred, for I was fastly bound.
My heart turned sick, my brain grew sore,
And throbbed awhile, then beat no more:
The skies spun like a mighty wheel;
I saw the trees like drunkards reel,
And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes,
Which saw no farther: he who dies
Can die no more than then I died.
O'ertortured by that ghastly ride,
I felt the blackness come and go,

And strove to wake; but could not make
My senses climb up from below:

I felt as on a plank at sea,

When all the waves that dash o'er thee,
At the same time upheave and whelm,
And hurl thee towards a desert realm.
My undulating life was as

The fancied lights that flitting pass
Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when
Fever begins upon the brain;
But soon it passed, with little pain,

But a confusion worse than such:
I own that I should deem it much,
Dying, to feel the same again;
And yet I do suppose we must
Feel far more ere we turn to dust:

No matter; I have bared my brow

Full in Death's face-before- and now.

My thoughts came back; where was I? Cold, And numb, and giddy: pulse by pulse

Life reassumed its lingering hold,

And throb by throb: till grown a pang
Which for a moment would convulse,

My blood reflowed, though thick and chill; My ear with uncouth noises rang,

My heart began once more to thrill;
My sight returned, though dim; alas!
And thickened, as it were, with glass.
Methought the dash of waves was nigh;
There was a gleam too of the sky,
Studded with stars; -it is no dream;
The wild horse swims the wilder stream!
The bright broad river's gushing tide
Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide,
And we are halfway, struggling o'er
To yon unknown and silent shore.
The waters broke my hollow trance,
And with a temporary strength

My stiffened limbs were rebaptized.
My courser's broad breast proudly braves,
And dashes off the ascending waves,
And onward we advance!

We reach the slippery shore at length,
A haven I but little prized,

With glossy skin, and dripping mane,

And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain Up the repelling bank.

We gain the top: a boundless plain

Spreads through the shadow of the night,

And onward, onward, onward, seems,
Like precipices in our dreams,

To stretch beyond the sight;

And here and there a speck of white,

Or scattered spot of dusky green,

In masses broke into the light,
As rose the moon upon my right.
But naught distinctly seen

In the dim waste would indicate

The omen of a cottage gate;
No twinkling taper from afar
Stood like a hospitable star;
Not even an ignis fatuus rose
To make him merry with my woes:

That very cheat had cheered me then!
Although detected, welcome still,
Reminding me through every ill,
Of the abodes of men.

Onward we went-but slack and slow;
His savage force at length o'erspent,
The drooping courser, faint and low,
All feebly foaming went.

A sickly infant had had power

To guide him forward in that hour;

But useless all to me.

His newborn tameness naught availed –
My limbs were bound; my force had failed,
Perchance, had they been free.

With feeble effort still I tried

To rend the bonds so starkly tied-
But still it was in vain;

My limbs were only wrung the more,
And soon the idle strife gave o'er,

Which but prolonged their pain:
The dizzy race seemed almost done,
Although no goal was nearly won:
Some streaks announced the coming sun
How slow, alas! he came!
Methought that mist of dawning gray
Would never dapple into day;
How heavily it rolled away-

Before the eastern flame

Rose crimson, and deposed the stars,

And called the radiance from their cars,

And filled the earth, from his deep throne,

With lonely luster, all his own.

Up rose the sun; the mists were curled
Back from the solitary world

Which lay around behind before;

What booted it to traverse o'er

Plain, forest, river? Man nor brute,

Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot,

Lay in the wild luxuriant soil;
No sign of travel-none of toil;
The very air was mute;

And not an insect's shrill small horn,
Nor matin bird's new voice was borne
From herb nor thicket. Many a werst,
Panting as if his heart would burst,
The weary brute still staggered on;
And still we were
- or seemed - alone:
At length, while reeling on our way,
Methought I heard a courser neigh,
From out yon tuft of blackening firs.
Is it the wind those branches stirs ?
No, no! from out the forest prance

A trampling troop; I see them come!
In one vast squadron they advance!

I strove to cry-my lips were dumb. The steeds rush on in plunging pride; But where are they the reins to guide? A thousand horse - and none to ride! With flowing tail, and flying mane, Wide nostrils-never stretched by pain, Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, And feet that iron never shod, And flanks unscarred by spur or rod, A thousand horse, the wild, the free, Like waves that follow o'er the sea, Came thickly thundering on, As if our faint approach to meet; The sight renerved my courser's feet, A moment staggering, feebly fleet, A moment, with a faint low neigh, He answered, and then fell; With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, And reeking limbs immovable, His first and last career is done! On came the troop- they saw him stoop, They saw me strangely bound along His back with many a bloody thong: They stop-they start- they snuff the air, Gallop a moment here and there, Approach, retire, wheel round and round, Then plunging back with sudden bound, Headed by one black mighty steed,

Who seemed the patriarch of his breed,

Without a single speck or hair
Of white upon his shaggy hide;

They snort-they foam — neigh— swerve aside,
And backward to the forest fly,

By instinct, from a human eye.

They left me there to my despair,

Linked to the dead and stiffening wretch,
Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch,
Relieved from that unwonted weight,
From whence I could not extricate
Nor him nor me and there we lay
The dying on the dead!

CHARLES XII. AT BENDER.

BY VOLTAIRE.

[FRANÇOIS MARIE AROUET, who assumed the name Voltaire, was born in Paris, November 21, 1694, and died there, May 30, 1778. He was educated in the Jesuit college Louis-le-Grand, and though intended by his parents for a lawyer he determined to become a writer. From the beginning of his career he was keen and fearless, and by his indiscreet but undeniably witty writing incurred the displeasure of the Duke of Orleans, regent of France, by whom he was imprisoned in the Bastille, 1717-1718. His life was full of action and vicissitude, and though his denunciations of wrong or tyranny from any quarter frequently brought upon him persecution from those in authority, he was acknowledged by the world the greatest writer in Europe. His writings are far too numerous for individual mention, some editions of his collected works containing as many as ninety-two volumes. They include poetry, dramas, and prose. Among his more famous works are: “Œdipus” (1718), “History of Charles XII., King of Sweden" (1730), "Philosophical Letters" (1732), "Century of Louis XIV." (1751), "History of Russia under Peter I." (1759), "Republican Ideas" (1762), "The Bible at Last Explained" (1766), and the "Essay on Manners."]

THE king of Sweden was continually soliciting the Porte to send him back through Poland with a numerous army. The divan, in fact, resolved to send him back with a simple guard of seven or eight thousand men, not as a king whom they wished to assist, but as a guest whom they wanted to get rid of. For this purpose, the Sultan Achmet wrote to him in these

terms:

Most powerful among the kings, adorer of Jesus, redresser of wrongs and injuries, and protector of justice in the ports and republics of the South and North; shining in majesty, friend of honor and glory, and of our Sublime Porte, CHARLES KING OF SWEDEN, whose enterprises God crown with success!