Under his spurning feet, the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape sped away behind And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, The first that the General saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; What was done? what to do? a glance told him both. He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compelled it to pause With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play He seemed to the whole great army to say, Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan ! - From Winchester-twenty miles away!" Uh! dash it on the thirsty earth, It cannot cheer the heart with mirth It hath no soothing charm for him Then, hence! away, thou deadly foe,— Thou palsy of the soul! Henceforth I drink no more of thee, Thou bane of Adam's race; But to a heavenly fountain flee, SHYLOCK TO ANTONIO.-SHAKSPEARE. IGNIOR Antonio, many a time and oft n the Rialto you have rated me bout my moneys, and my usances: till have I borne it with a patient shrug, "or sufferance is the badge of all our tribe: You call me, misbeliever, cut-throat, dog, A cur can lend three thousand ducats? or Fair sir, you spat on me on Wednesday last; You called me-dog; and for these courtesies THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH-LONGFELLOW. UNDER a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, And children coming home from school They love to see the flaming forge, And catch the burning sparks that fly He goes on Sunday to the church, He hears the parson pray and preach, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, He needs must think of her once more, And with his hard, rough hand he wipes Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowing, Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught ! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Each burning deed and thought. THE RAVEN.-POE. ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore! While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door, "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door; Only this and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;-vainly I had tried to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore Nameless here forevermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before, So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating ""Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; This it is and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, |