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But the noon's scorching flame

Soon shoots through his frame,
And he turns, faint and way-worn, to Heaven with a sigh

From the flood and the foe,

Thou'st redeemed me, and oh!
Thus by thirst overcome, must I effortless lie,
And leave him, the beloved of my bosom to die ???

Scarce uttered the word,

When startled he heard
Purling sounds, sweet as silver's, fall fresh on his ear ;

And lo! a small rill

Trickled down from the hill !
He heard and he saw, and, with joy drawing near,
Laved his limbs, slaked his thirst, and renewed his career.

And now the sun's beams through the deep boughs are glowing, And rock, and tree, and mountain, their shadows are throwing,

Huge and grim, e'er the meadow's bright bloom ; And two travelers are seen coming forth on their way, And just as they pass, he hears one of them say—

'Tis the hour: fixed for his doom !""

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Still anguish gives strength to his wavering flight ;
On he speeds; and lo! now in the eve's reddening light

The domes of far Syracuse blend ;-
There Philostratus meets him, (a servant grown gray
In his house,) crying, “ Back ! not a moment's delay;

No cares can avail for thy friend.

“No ; nothing can save his dear head from the tomb;

So think of preserving thy own.
Myself, I beheld him led forth to his doom ;

Ere this his brave spirit has flown !
With confident soul he stood, hour after hour,

Thy return never doubting to see ;
No sneers of the tyrant that faith could o'erpower,

Or shake his assurance in thee!"

66 And is it too late! and can I not save
His dear life ! then, at least, let me share in his grave.
Yes, death shall unite us! no tyrant shall say,
That friend to his friend proved untrue , he
May torture,—may mock at all mercy and ruth,
But ne'er shall he doubt of our friendship and truth."

may slay,

'Tis sunset ; and Damon arrives at the gate,

Sees the scaffold and multitudes gazing below;
Already the victim is bared for his fate,

Already the deathsman stands armed for the blow;
When, hark! a wild voice which is echoed around,
Stay !—’tis I—it is Damon, for whom he was bound !'"

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And now they sink in each other's embrace,

And are weeping for joy and despair;
Not a soul, among thousands, but melts at their case,

Which swift to the monarch they bear ;
Even he, too, is moved—feels for once as he ought-
And commands, that they both to his throne shall be brought.

Then,—alternately gazing on each gallant youth,

With looks of awe, wonder, and shame ;“Ye have conquered !” he cries, “yes, I see now that truth, —

That friendship is not a mere name. Go; you're free; but, while life's dearest blessings you prove,

Let one prayer of your monarch be heard, That—his past sins forgot-in this union of love

And of virtue—you make him the third."

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TH

"

HE fool hath said “ THERE IS NO GOD!"

No GOD!-Who lights the morning sun, And sends him on his heavenly road,

A far and brilliant course to run ?

Who, when the radiant day is done,
Hangs forth the moon's nocturnal lamp,

And bids the planets, one by one,
Steal o'er the night vales, dark and damp?

No God !-Who gives the evening dew,

The fanning breeze, the fostering shower ?
Who warms the spring-morn's budding bough,

And plants the summer's noon-tide flower ?

Who spreads in the autumnal bower
The fruit tree's mellow stores around,

And sends the winter's icy power,

To invigorate the exhausted ground?
No God !—Who makes the bird to wing

Its flight like arrow through the sky,
And gives the deer its power to spring

From rock to rock triumphantly?

Who formed Behemoth, huge and high,
That at a draught the river drains,

And great Leviathan to lie,
Like floating isle, on ocean plains ?

No God !--Who warms the heart to heave

With thousand feelings soft and sweet,
And prompts the aspiring soul to leave

The earth we tread beneath our feet

And soar away on pinions fleet
Beyond the scenes of mortal strife,

With fair ethereal forms to meet,
That tell us of the after life?

No God !-Who fixed the solid ground

Of pillars strong, that alter not?
Who spread the curtained skies around?

Who doth the ocean bounds allot ?

Who all things to perfection brought
On earth below, in heaven above?

Go ask the fool, of impious thought,
Who dares to say,

6. THERE IS NO GOD!”

XXIII.-THE BELLS OF SHANDON.

FATHER PROUT.

W

ITH deep affection and recollection

I often think of those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, in days of childhood,

Fling round my cradle, their magic spells.
On this I ponder, where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;

With thy bells of Shandon

That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in,

Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine ;
While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate,

But all their music spoke naught like thine ;
For memory dwelling on each proud swelling
Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free,

Made the bells of Shandon

Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

I've heard the bells tolling “old Adrian's Mole” in,

Their thunder rolling from the Vatican, And cymbals glorious, swinging uproarious

In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame ; But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly

Oh ! the bells of Shandon

Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

There's a bell in Moscow, while on tower and kiosko

In St. Sophia the Turkman gets,
And loud in the air, calls men to prayer

From the tapering suminit of tall minarets.
Such empty phantom, I freely grant them,
But there's an anthem more dear to me

'Tis the bells of Shandon

That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

XXIV.-THE DEAD STUDENT.

WILL CARLETON.

IT doesn't seem—now does it, Jack ?–as if poor Brown were dead ;

'Twas only yesterday at noon he had to take his bed. The day before he played first base, and ran M'Farland down ; And then, to slip away so sly,—'twas not at all like Brown.

The story seems too big to take. 'Most any one will find
It's sometimes hard to get a man well laid out in his mind.
And Brown was just afire with life. 'Twouldn't scare me, I avow,
To hear a whoop, and see the man go rushing past here now.

Poor Brown! he's lying in his room, as white as drifted snow.
I called upon him, as it were, an hour or two ago.
A-rushing into Brownie's room seemed awkward-like and queer ;
We haven't spoken back and forth for something like a year.

We didn't pull together square a single night or day;
Howe'er I went he soon contrived to find another way.
He worked against me in the class, before my very eyes.
He opened up and scooped me square out of the Junior prize.

In fact, I came at last to feel—and own it with dismay-
That life would be worth living for, if Brown were out the way.
But when I heard that he was dead, my feelings tacked; and then
I would have given half my life to get his back again.

I called upon him, as it were, an hour or two ago.
The room was neat beyond excuse,—the women made it so.
Be sure he had no hand in that, and naught about it knew.
To see the order lying round had made him very blue.

A sweet bouquet of summer flowers smiled in the face of Death.
Straight through the open window came the morning's fragrant breath.
Close-caged, a small canary-bird, with glossy, yellow throat,
Skipped drearily from perch to perch, and never sung a note.

With hair unusually combed, sat poor M'Farland near,
Alternately perusing Greek, and wrestling with a tear.
A homely little girl of six, for some old kindness' sake,
Was sobbing in tbe corner there as if her heart would break.

The books looked worn and wretched-like, almost as if they knew,
And seemed to be a-whispering their titles to my view.
His rod and gun were in their place; and high, where all might see,
Gleamed jauntily the boating-cup he won last year from me.

I lifted up the solemn sheet. That honest, earnest face
Shuwed signs of culture and of toil that death could not erase.
As western skies at twilight mark where late the sun has been,
Brown's face revealed the mind and soul that once had burned within.

He looked so grandly helpless there, upon that lonely bed!
Oh, Jack! these manly foes are foes no more when they are dead !
“Old boy,” I sobbed, “'twas half my fault. This heart makes late amends.''
I took the white cold hands in mine,—and Brown and I were friends.

XXV.-LORD WILLIAM.

SOU THEY

No

eye beheld when William plunged young Edmund in the stream ;

No human ear but William's heard young Edmund's drowning scream. Submissive, all the vassals owned the murderer for their lord ; And he—as rightful heir---possessed the house of Erlingford.

The ancient house of Erlingford stood in a fair domain ;
And Severn's ample waters near, rolled through the fertile plain.
And often the way-faring man would love to linger there,
Forgetful of his onward road, to gaze on scenes so fair,
But never could Lord William dare to gaze on Severn's stream ;
In every wind that swept its waves, he heard young Edmund scream!
In vain, at midnight's silent hour, sleep closed the murderer's eyes,
In every dream the murderer saw young Edmund's form arise !

- To other climes the pilgrim fled—but could not fly despair ;
He sought his home again—but peace was still a stranger there.

Slow went the passing hours, yet swift the months appeared to roll ;
And now the day returned, that shook with terror William's soul-
A day that William never felt return without dismay;
For, well had conscience calender'd young Edmund's dying day.
A fearful day was that ! the rains fell fast with tempest roar,
And the swoln tide of Severn spread far on the level shore.
-In vain Lord William sought the feast, in vain he quaffed the bowl,
And strove, with noisy mirth, to drown the anguish of his soul
The tempest, as its sudden swell in gusty howlings came,
With cold and death-like feelings seemed to thrill his shuddering frame.
Reluctant, now, as night came on, his lonely couch he pressed ;
And wearied out, he sank to sleep,—to sleep—but not to rest !
Beside that couch, his brother's form, Lord Edmund, seemed to stand
Such, and so pale, as when in death he grasped his brother's hand;
Such, and so pale his face, as when with faint and faltering tongue,
To William's care—a dying charge !-he left his orphan son.
" I bade thee with a father's love my orphan Edmund guard
Well, William, hast thou kept thy charge ! now take thy due reward!!"
-He started up-each limb convulsed with agonizing fear :
He only heard the storm of night, —'twas music to his ear !
When, lo! the voice of loud alarm his inmost soul appals :
" What ho! Lord William, rise in haste! the water saps thy walls !""
He rose in haste :--beneath the walls he saw the flood appear !
It hemmed him round—'twas midnight now—no human aid was near.
-He heard the shout of joy !—for now a boat approached the wall ;
And eager to the welcome aid they crowd for safety all. —

My boat is small,” the boatman cried, “’t will bear but one away ;
Come in, Lord William, and do ye in heaven's protection stay."
Then William leaped into the boat, his terror was so sore ;

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