THE DYING GLADIATOR.

LORD BYRON.

I SEE before me the Gladiator lie :

He leans upon his hand; his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his drooped head sinks gradually low;
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now
The arena swims around him-he is gone,

Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.

He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He recked not of the life he lost nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay;
There were his young barbarians all at play;

There was their Dacian mother-he, their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday!-

All this rushed with his blood-Shall he expire, And unavenged?-Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire!

ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.

LEIGH HUNT.

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold :-
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou ?"-The vision raised its head,

And, with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

THE SLAVE'S DREAM.

H.

W. LONGFELLOW.

BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;

His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand.

Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,
He saw his Native Land.

Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flowed;
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain
Once more a king he strode;
And heard the tinkling caravans

Descend the mountain road.

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
Among her children stand;

They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,
They held him by the hand!-

A tear burst from the sleeper's lids

And fell into the sand.

And then at furious speed he rode
Along the Niger's bank;

His bridal-reins were golden chains,
And, with a martial clank,

At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel
Smiting his stallion's flank.

Before him, like a blood-red flag,
The bright flamingoes flew ;

From morn till night he followed their flight,
O'er plains where the tamarind grew,
Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,

And the ocean rose to view.

At night he heard the lion roar,
And the hyæna scream;

And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds
Beside some hidden stream;

And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,
Through the triumph of his dream.

The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty;

And the blast of the Desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,

That he started in his sleep, and smiled
At their tempestuous glee.

He did not feel the driver's whip,
Nor the burning heat of day;

For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,
And his lifeless body lay

A worn-out fetter, that the soul

Had broken and thrown away!

ANNABEL LEE.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child, and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;

But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee;

With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me;

Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who are older than we-

Of many far wiser than we;

And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling-my darling-my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

MY CHILD.

JOHN PIERPOINT.

I CANNOT make him dead!
His fair sunshiny head

Is ever bounding round my study chair;
Yet when my eyes, now dim

With tears, I turn to him,
The vision vanishes-he is not there!

I walk my parlour floor,
And through the open door,

I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;
I'm stepping toward the hall

To give the boy a call;

And then bethink me that he is not there!

I thread the crowded street;

A satchelled lad I meet,

With the same beaming eyes and coloured hair: