Then starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein,

Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train;

And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led,

And sternly set them face to face,-the king before the dead:

:

Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand

to kiss?

-Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this?

The voice, the glance, the heart I sought,-give answer, where are they?

-If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay!

"Into these glassy eyes put light,-be still! keep down thine ire,

Bid these white lips a blessing speak,-this earth is not my sire:

Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed,

Thou canst not?—and a king!—his dust be mountains on thy head!"

He loosed the steed, his slack hand fell;-upon the silent face

He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place:

His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in martial strain:

His banner led the spears no more, amidst the hills of

Spain.

ALEXANDER'S FEAST.

(DRYDEN.)

was—at the royal feast, for Persia won, By Philip's warlike son

Aloft in awful state, the godlike hero sat On his imperial throne.

His valiant peers-were placed around,

Their brows, with roses and with myrtles bound
So should desert, in arms be crowned.

The lovely Thais, by his side,

Sat, like a blooming Eastern bride,
In flower of youth and beauty's pride-
Happy, happy, happy pair!

None but the brave, none but the brave,
None but the brave-deserve the fair.

Timotheus, placed on high,
Amid the tuneful choir,

With flying fingers-touched the lyre;
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.

The song-began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above;
Such is the power-of mighty love.
A dragon's fiery form belied the god:
Sublime, on radiant spheres he rode,

When he to fair Olympia pressed,

And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.

The listening crowd-admire the lofty sound:
A present deity! they shout around;

A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound.
With ravished ears, the monarch hears;
Assumes the god, affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.

The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician sung, Of Bacchus, ever fair, and ever young.

The jolly god in triumph comes!
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums:
Flushed with a purple grace,

He shows his honest face.

Now, give the hautboys breath-he comes! he comest Bacchus, ever fair and young,

Drinking joys did first ordain.

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure;
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;

Rich the treasure; sweet the pleasure;

Sweet is pleasure after pain.

Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;

Fought his battles o'er again;

And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew

the slain.

The master saw the madness rise;

His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And, while he heaven and earth defied,
Changed his hand, and checked his pride.-

He chose a mournful muse, soft pity to infuse,
He sung Darius, great and good,

By too severe a fate, fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate,

And weltering in his blood.

Deserted, in his utmost need,

By those, his former bounty fed,

On the bare earth-exposed he lies,

With not a friend-to close his eyes.

With downcast look-the joyous victor sat,
Revolving, in his altered soul,

The various turns of fate below,
And now and then, a sigh he stole,
And tears-began to flow.

The master smiled to see,

That love-was in the next degree:
"Twas but a kindred sound to move;
For pity-melts the mind to love,

Softly sweet in Lydian measures,
Soon, he soothes his soul to pleasures;

War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honor, but an empty bubble;
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying.
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, oh! think it worth enjoying!
Lovely Thais sits beside thee;

Take the good the gods provide thee.

The many rend the skies with loud applause;
So love was crowned, but music-won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

Gazed on the fair, who caused his care,
And sighed and looked; sighed and looked;
Sighed and looked; and sighed again:

At length, with love, and wine, at once oppress'd,
The vanquished victor-sunk-upon her breast.

Now, strike the golden lyre again;

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain :

Break his bands of sleep asunder,

And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.

Hark! hark!-the horrid sound

Hath raised up his head, as awaked from the dead,

And amazed he stares around.

Revenge, revenge! Timotheus cries

See the furies arise! See the snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in the air,

And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
Behold a ghastly band, each a torch in his hand!
These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain,
And, unburied, remain inglorious on the plain.
Give the vengeance due to the valiant crew.
Behold, how they toss their torches on high!
How they point to the Persian abodes,

And glittering temples of their hostile gods!

The princes applaud, with a furious joy;

And the king seizes a flambeau with zeal to destroy: Thais led the way, to light him on his prey; And, like another Helen-fired another Troy.

Thus, long ago, ere heaving bellows learned to blow,
While organs yet were mute;

Timotheus, to his breathing flute and sounding lyre,
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
At last, divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame.

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,

And added length-to solemn sounds,

With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both-divide the crown;
He raised a mortal-to the skies;
She drew an angel down.

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

(HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.)
Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat.
Across its antique portico

Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw;
And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all,-

Half-way up the stairs it stands.

And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,

Like a monk, who, under his cloak,

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!

With sorrowful voice to all who pass,

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

By day its voice is low and light;
But in the silent dead of night,