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But wilt thou cure thine heart
Of love and all its smart,

Then die, dear, die;
'Tis deeper, sweeter,
Than on a rose bank to lie dreaming

With folded eye;
And then alone, amid the beaming
Of love's stars, thou'lt meet her

In eastern sky.

ARMINIUS. A spirited version of a dramatic scene in the second book of the Annals of Tacitus, by WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

Back, back ;-he fears not foaming flood

Who fears not steel-clad line:-
No warrior thou of German blood,

No brother thou of mine.
Go, earn Rome's chain to load thy neck,

Her gems to deck thy hilt ;
And blazon honour's hapless wreck

With all the gauds of guilt.

But wouldst thou have me share the prey ;

By all that I have done,
The Varian bones that day by day

Lie whitening in the sun ;
The legion's trampled panoply,

The eagle's shatter'd wing,
I would not be for earth or sky

So scorn'd and mean a thing.

Ho, call me here the wizard, boy,

Of dark and subtle skill,
To agonize but not destroy,

To torture, not to kill.
When swords are out, and shriek and shout

Leave little room for prayer,
No fetter on man's arm or heart

Hangs half so heavy there.

I curse him by the gifts the land

Hath won from him and Rome,
The riving axe, the wasting brand,

Rent forest, blazing home.
I curse him by our country's gods,

The terrible, the dark,
The breakers of the Roman rods,

The smiters of the bark.

Oh, misery that such a ban

On such a brow should be !
Why comes he not in battle's van

His country's chief to be ?
To stand a comrade by my side,

The sbarer of my fame,
And worthy of a brother's pride,

And of a brother's name?

But it is past !—where heroes press

And cowards bend the knee, Arminius is not brotherless,

His brethren are the free. They come around :-one hour, and light

Will fade from turf and tide, Then onward, onward to the fight,

With darkness for our guide.

To-night, to night, when we shall meet

In combat face to face,
Then only would Arminius greet

The renegade's embrace.
The canker of Rome's guilt shall be

Upon his dying name;
And as he lived in slavery,

So shall be fall in shame.

THE POWER OF SONG.

Translated from the German of SCHILLER, by MERIVALE.

A CATARACT from the clefts descending,

It comes with thunder's mighty force, Rude mountain-wrecks its rush attending,

And oaks uprooted track its course.

Entranced in soft voluptuous dread,
The traveller hears, in silence heeding ;

He hears the roaring flood o'er-head,
Yet knows not whence the sound proceeding.
So stream the waves of Song, out-pouring
Through fountains hid from man's exploring.

Leagued with those awful powers that wind

The thread of life-a silent band-
Who can the minstrel's charm unbind ?

His strains melodious who withstand ?

How, with the rod's hermetic spell,
He curbs the awaken'd heart's emotion !

Now plunges in the abyss of hell,
Now heavenward lifts in rapt devotion ;
And sways, 'mid sport and earnest reeling,
Upon the tremulous scale of feeling.

-As if into the round of pleasure,

All suddenly with giant stride,
In mystic garb and ghostly measure,

Some dark prodigious fate should glide !
Each earthly grandeur bends before

The stranger from the world unknown;
- Wild jubilee's insensate roar

Is mute and every mask falls down ;
While, by truth's mighty victory banish'd,
The works of falsehood all have vanish’d.

Thus to the voice of Song awakening,

Man springs aloft in spirit-flight,
And, every hindrance vain forsaken,

Steps onward, armed with holy might;

One with the immortals hovering o'er him,

He seems to spurn this earthly ball ;
All other powers are hush'd before him,

And no dark destinies befall.
Whilst firm the minstrel's charm abideth,
Each fold of care its might derideth.

And-after hours of hopeless yearning,

And long exclusion's bitter smart,
As now, with tears repentant burning,

The child springs to its mother's heart
-So to the bowers in youth belovéd,

The pure delights of childhood's train,
From climes and customs far removed,

Song brings the wanderer home again,
In nature's faithful arms to warm
The spirit chilled by lifeless_form.

THE FISHERMAN'S SONG.

This spirited Lyric appeared anonyinously in an old Irish Magazine.
Away-away o'er the feathery crest

Of the beautiful blue are we :
For our toil-lot lies on its boiling breast,

And our wealth's in the glorious sea :
And we've hymn'd in the grasp of the fiercest night,

To the god of the sons of toil,
As we cleft the wave by its own white light,
And away with its scaly spoil.

Then oh for the long and the strong oar-sweep

We have given, and will again ;
For when children's weal lies in the deep,

Oh! their fathers must be men.

And we'll think, as the blast grows loud and long,

That we hear our offsprings cries-
And we'll think, as the surge grows tall and strong,

Of the tears in their mothers' eyes :

And we'll reel through the clutch of the shiv'ring green,

For the warm, warm clasp at home
For the soothing smile of each heart's own queen,
And her arms, like the flying foam.

Then oh for the long and strong oar-sweep

We have given and will again;
· For when children's weal lies in the deep,

Oh! their fathers must be men.
Do we yearn for the land, when toss'd on this ?

Let it ring to the proud one's tread :
Far worse than the waters and winds may hiss

Where the poor man gleans his bread.
If the adder-tongue of the upstart knave

Can bleed wbat it may not bend, 'Twere better to battle the wildest wave, That the spirit of storms could send,

Than be singing farewell to the bold oar-sweep

We have given, and will again ;
If our souls should bow to the savage deep,

Oh! they'll never to savage men.
And if death, at times, through a foamy cloud,

On the brown-brow'd boatman glares,
He can pay him his glance with a soul as proud

As the form of a mortal bears :
And oh 'twere glorious, sure, to die,

In our toils for some on shore,
With a hopeful eye fix'd calm on the sky,
And a hand on the broken oar.

Then oh for a long, strong, steady sweep;

Hold to it-hurrah-dash on :
If our babes must fast till we rob the deep,

'Tis time that we had begun.

HYMN FOR MY BROTHER'S ORDINATION.

By LONGFELLOW.
CHRIST to the young man said: “Yet one thing more

If thou wouldst perfect be,
Sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor,

And come and follow me.”

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