But the noon's scorching flame Soon shoots through his frame, And he turns, faint and way-worn, to Heaven with a sigh Thou'st redeemed me, and oh! Thus by thirst overcome, must I effortless lie, 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, Still anguish gives strength to his wavering flight; There Philostratus meets him, (a servant grown gray "No; nothing can save his dear head from the tomb; Myself, I beheld him led forth to his doom; With confident soul he stood, hour after hour, No sneers of the tyrant that faith could o'erpower, "And is it too late! and can I not save His dear life! then, at least, let me share in his grave. That friend to his friend proved untrue, he may slay,— But ne'er shall he doubt of our friendship and truth.” '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 !'" 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, 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, That-his past sins forgot-in this union of love TH XXII. THE ATHEIST. WILLIAM KNOX. HE fool hath said "THERE IS NO GOD!" And sends him on his heavenly road, A far and brilliant course to run? No God!-Who gives the evening dew, The fanning breeze, the fostering shower? No God!-Who makes the bird to wing 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, Like floating isle, on ocean plains ? No God-Who warms the heart to heave With fair ethereal forms to meet, No God!-Who fixed the solid ground Go ask the fool, of impious thought, XXIII. THE BELLS OF SHANDON. WITH 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, While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate, 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 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 summit 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; The story seems too big to take. 'Most any one will find Poor Brown! he's lying in his room, as white as drifted snow. We didn't pull together square a single night or day; In fact, I came at last to feel-and own it with dismay— 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. With hair unusually combed, sat poor M'Farland near, The books looked worn and wretched-like, almost as if they knew, His rod and gun were in their place; and high, where all might see, I lifted up the solemn sheet. That honest, earnest face 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. N XXV.—LORD WILLIAM. SOUTHEY. eye beheld when William plunged young Edmund in the stream; 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 ; But never could Lord William dare to gaze on Severn's stream ; Slow went the passing hours, yet swift the months appeared to roll ; 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, |