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that lift it towards the zenith, long chains of lightning flash through it, and the growling thunder seems like the rumble of the pulleys.

I thrust away my azalia boughs, and fling back the 5 shattered blinds, as the sun and the clouds meet; and my

room darkens with the coming shadows. For an instant the edges of the thick, creamy masses of cloud are gilded by the shrouded sun, and show gorgeous scallops of gold

that toss upon the hem of the storm. But the blazonry 10 fades as the clouds mount, and the brightening lines of

the lightning dart up from the lower skirts, and heave the billowy masses into the middle heaven.

The workmen are urging their oxen fast across the meadow; and the loiterers come straggling after, with 15 rakes upon their shoulders.

The air freshens, and blows now from the face of the coming clouds. I see the great elms in the plain, swaying their tops, even before the storm-breeze has reached me;

and a bit of ripened grain, upon a swell of the meadow. 20 waves and tosses like a billowy sea.

Presently I hear the rush of the wind, and the .cherry and pear trees rustle through all their leaves, and my paper is whisked away by the intruding blast.

There is a quiet of a mi.nent, in which the wind, even, 25 seems weary and faint; and nothing finds utterance save one hoarse tree-toad, doling out his lugubrious notes.

Now comes a blinding flash from the clouds; and a quick, sharp clang clatters through the heavens, and bel.

lows loud and long among the hills. Then — like great 30 grief spending its pent agony in tears — come the big

drops of rain, pattering on the lawn, and on the leaves, and most musically of all upon the roof above me; not now with the light fall of the spring shower, but with strong steppings, like the tirst, proud tread of youth.


Miss MitfORD. (MARY RUSSELL MITFORD was born at Alresford, in England, December 16, 1786, and died January 10, 1855. She published a number of works, comprising poems, sketches, and dramas, of which the best and most popular is “Our Village,” a collection of pictures of rural life and manners, written in a graceful and animated style, and pervaded with a most kindly and sympathetic spirit. She was very friendly to our country, and edited three volumes of “Stories of American Life by American Authors.”

The following extract is from “Rienzi,” the most successful of her dramas, founded on the fate and fortunes of a celebrated personage of that name, who in the fourteenth century was for a brief period the ruler of Rome. This speech is made by Rienzi to a Roman noble who was petitioning for the life of a brother who had been condemned to death. A brother of Rienzi's had been killed by a servant of this same noble.]

And darest talk thou to me of brothers ? Thou, . Whose groom — wouldst have me break my own just laws To save thy brother ? thine! Hast thou forgotten

When that most beautiful and blameless boy, 5 The prettiest piece of innocence that ever

Breathed in this sinful world, lay at thy feet,
Slain by thy pampered minion, and I knelt
Before thee for redress, whilst thou — didst never

Hear talk of retribution! This is justice,
10 Pure justice, not revenge! Mark well, my lords -

Pure, equal justice. Martin Orsini
Had open trial, is guilty, is condemned,
And he shall die ! Lords,

If ye could range before me all the peers, 15 Prelates, and potentates of Christendom —

The holy pontiff kneeling at my knee,
And emperors crouching at my feet, to sue
For this great robber, still I should be blind

As justice. But this very day, a wife, 20 One infant folded in her arms, and two

Clinging to the poor rags that scarcely hid
Her squalid form, grasped at my bridle-rein
To beg her husband's life — condemned to die

For some vile petty theft, some paltry scudi —
And, whilst the fiery war-horse chafed and reared,
Shaking his crest, and plunging to get free,

There, midst the dangerous coil unmoved, she stood, 5 Pleading in broken words and piercing shrieks,

And hoarse, low, shivering sobs, the very cry
Of nature! And, when I at last said no, -
For I said no to her, — she flung herself

And those poor innocent babes between the stones 10 And my hot Arab's hoofs. We saved them all —

Thank heaven, we saved them all ! but 1 said no
To that sad woman, midst her shrieks. Ye dare Dot
Ask me for mercy now.


COLLINS. WILLIAN COLLINS was born in Chichester, England, December 25, 1720, and died June 12, 1756. He was a man of sensitive nature and melancholy temperament. His last years were clouded with disease and insanity. His poctical genius was of a high order, and many of his smaller poems are dis tinguished by imaginative splendor, an ethereal tone of sentiment, and subtie beauty of language. His “ Ode to the Passions” is a very popular poem, and deservedly so, for nothing can surpass its picturesque energy, brilliant descriptions, and vivid coloring.)

1 When Music, heavenly maid, was young, .

While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined :
Till once, 't is said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, :

From the supporting myrtles round, * Scudi is the plural of scudo, a silver coin nearly equivalent to a dollar.

They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each — for madness ruled the hour-
Would prove his own expressive power.

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3 Next, Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings owned his secret stings;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings.

1 With woful measures, wan Despair

Low, sullen sounds ! — his grief beguiled,
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;

'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was will

5 But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,

What was thy delighted measure?

Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She called on Echo still through all the song:

And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair.

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And longer had she sung — but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose :
He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down ;

And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ;

And, ever and anon, he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat:
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity, at his side,
Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien,
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his


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Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed;

Sad proof of thy distressful state!
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed;

And, now it courted Love ; now, raving, called on Hate.

8 With eyes upraised, as one inspired,

Pale Melancholy sat retired ;
And, from her wild, sequestered seat,

In notes, by distance made more sweet,
Poured through the mellow. horn her pensive soul:

And, dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels joined the sound:
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole
Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay

(Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace, and lonely musing,) In hollow murmurs died away.

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But, 0 ! how altered was its sprightlier tone,
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung!
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known!

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