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HARP OF THE NORTH.

Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,

On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;
In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark ;

The deer half-seen are to the covert wending.
Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,

And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;
Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers blending,

With distant echo from the fold and lea,

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And herdboy's evening pipe and hum of housing bee.

Yet once again farewell, thou minstrel Harp!

Yet once again forgive my feeble sway;
And little reck I of the censure sharp

May idly cavil at an idle lay.
Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way,

Through secret woes the world has never known,
When on the weary night dawned wearier day,

And bitterer was the grief devoured alone.
That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress, is thine own!

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Scott.

CITHARA CALEDONIÆ.

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ORTA Caledoniis valeas, Cithara, orta sub antris !

Purpureis major montibus umbra cadit :
Emicat in saltu seræ lampyridos ignis,

Cerva petit tectum vix bene visa nemus.
Tu magicam repetas ulmum; fontique ministres,

Et rudibus ventis, quæ rudiora sonas;
Dum tibi respondet pleni concentus ovilis,

Et pecudum a longo vox repetita jugo; Nec vespertini cessat pastoris arundo,

Nec prima reducum nocte susurrus apum.

Ergo iterum valeas, Cithara, acceptissima vati!

De nostris habeas crimina nulla modis :

Non horrere meum est linguam censoris acuti,

Si qua levi dicto vox leve vellat opus.
Multa tuis modulis, per longæ tædia vitæ,

Debuit arcanis mens mea pressa malis ;
Cum pepulit noctis tristes lux tristior umbras,

Curaque erat gravior, quam sine teste tuli.
Quod mihi per tantos suffecit vita labores,

Quod spiro et valeo, muneris omne tui est.

B. H. D.

MOLOCH.

My sentence is for open war: of wiles

More unexpert I boast not; them let those

Contrive who need, or when they need, not now.

For while they sit contriving, shall the rest,

Millions that stand in arms and longing wait

The signal to ascend, sit lingering here

Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling-place

Accept this dark opprobrious den of shame,

The prison of his tyranny, who reigns

By our delay? No, let us rather choose,

Armed with hell flames and fury, all at once,

O’er heaven's high towers to force resistless way,

Turning our tortures into horrid arms

Against the torturer; when to meet the noise

Of his almighty engine he shall hear

Infernal thunder, and for lightning, see
Black fire and horror shot with equal rage

Among his angels, and his throne itself

Mixed with Tartarean sulphur, and strange fire,

His own invented torments.

Milton.

MOLOCH LOQUITUR.

Bella placent nobis : nobis ars unica bellum,
Nec plures didicisse volo: quibus utile, cæcas
Consilii ambages jactent artemque sequentur.
Non hoc ista sibi tempus molimina poscit;
Nam dum quisque dolos texit vafer atque retexit,
En! coelo profugæ stant circum mille cohortes,
Armatisque fremunt dextris, et signa reposcunt
Expectata diu, si quando limina cæli
Aspiciant: nostri interea nigrantia lustra
Sedibus optatis foedique opprobria mutant
Carceris, atque alii tradunt sua regna morando.
Quin potius flammis Erebi cæcoque furore

Armati simul irruimus, cursuque per auras

Præcipiti summas cæli superavimus arces, Torquentes nova tela manu tormentaque ab ipso Addita, et in coelum coeli convertimus iras.

Audiet ille suum ad fulmen reboantia regna
Inferno tonitru, nec nostræ fulgura turmæ
Defuerint; tanto fremitu furor evomet atros
Inter coelicolas ignes, soliumque replebit
Sulfure Tartareo et piceæ caligine nubis,
Effundetque novas flammas, inventa tyranni.

G. C. THE DILEMMA.

If all the world were apple pie,

And all the sea were ink,
And all the trees were bread and cheese,
My stars ! what should we drink?

GAMMER GURTON.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Not a sound was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the ramparts we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,

O’er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him deep at dead of night,

The sod with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

And the lanthorn dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet or shroud we wound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow !

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