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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, at 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 looks the joyless victor sate
Revolving in his alter'd soul

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

The mighty 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 soothed his soul to pleasures.

War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honour but an empty bubble;

Never ending, still beginning,

Fighting still, and still destroying:

If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O 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 crown'd, but Music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the fair

Who caused his care

And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again :

At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd, The vanquish'd 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
Has 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 their hair,
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
Behold a ghastly band,

Each a torch in his hand!

Those 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 seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;
Thais led the way,

To light him to his prey,
And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.

Thus long ago,

Ere heaving bellows learn'd 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 the 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 POSIE.

By ROBERT BURNS.

O LUVE will venture in where it daurna weel be seen, O luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been; But I will down yon river rove, amang the fields sae green, An a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.

The primrose I will pu', the firstling of the year, And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear— For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer:

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view,
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonny mou';
The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue:
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there;
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air:
And a to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller gray,
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day;
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak' away:
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The woodbine I will pu' when the evening star is near, And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een sae clear; The violet's for modesty, which weel she fa's to wear : And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken bands o' luve, And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above, That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er

remove:

And this will be a posie to my ain dear May.

CHORUS FROM HELLAS.
By SHELLEY.

THE world's great age begins anew,
The golden years return,

The earth doth like a snake renew
Her winter weeds outworn:

Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.

A brighter Hellas rears its mountains
From waves serener far;

A new Peneus rolls its fountains
Against the morning-star.

Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep
Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep.

A loftier Argo cleaves the main,
Fraught with a later prize;
Another Orpheus sings again,
And loves, and weeps, and dies.
A new Ulysses leaves once more
Calypso for his native shore.

O write no more the tale of Troy,

If earth Death's scroll must be! Nor mix with Laian rage the joy Which dawns upon the free: Although a subtler sphinx renew Riddles of death Thebes never knew.

Another Athens shall arise,

And to remoter time

Bequeath, like sunset to the skies,
The splendour of its prime;

And leave, if nought so bright may live,
All earth can take or heaven can give.

Saturn and love their long repose
Shall burst, more bright and good
Than all who fell, than One who rose,
Than many unsubdued :

Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers,
But votive tears, and symbol flowers.

O cease! must hate and death return?
Cease! must men kill and die?
Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn
Of bitter prophecy.

The world is weary of the past,
O might it die or rest at last!

SONNET.

By SHAKSPERE.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead,
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O if, I say, you look upon this verse,

When I, perhaps, compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;
But let your love even with my life decay :
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.

TO THE WILLOW TREE.

By HERRICK.

THOU art to all lost love the best,
The only true plant found,
Wherewith young men and maids distrest,
And left of love, are crown'd.

When once the lover's rose is dead,
Or laid aside forlorn;

Then willow garlands 'bout the head,
Bedew'd with tears, are worn.

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