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"Proud maiden! I come with high spousals to grace thee,
In me the great conqueror of conquerors see;
Enthroned in a hall fit for monarchs I'll place thee,
And mine thou'rt for ever, thou high-born Ladye!"
The maiden she smiled, and in jewels arrayed her,
Of thrones and tiaras already dreamt she;

And proud was the step, as her bridegroom conveyed her
In pomp to his home, of that high-born Ladye.

"But whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have you led me?" Here's nought but a tomb and a dark cypress tree; Is this the bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me?" With scorn in her glance, said the high-born Ladye. 'Tis the home," he replied, "of earth's loftiest creatures,"Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see;

But she sunk on the ground-'twas a skeleton's features! -And Death was the Lord of the high-born Ladye!

LXXI. THE PROGRESS OF MADNESS.-M. G. Lewis.

STAY, gaoler! stay, and hear my woe!
He is not mad who kneels to thee;
For what I'm now, too well I know,
And what I was and what should be!
I'll rave no more in proud despair-
My language shall be mild, though sad;
But yet I'll firmly, truly swear,

I am not mad! I am not mad!

My tyrant foes have forged the tale,
Which chains me in this dismal cell!
My fate unknown my friends bewail--
Oh! gaoler, haste that fate to tell!
Oh! haste my father's heart to cheer;
His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad,
To know, though chained a captive here,
I am not mad! I am not mad!

He smiles in scorn--he turns the key

He quits the grate-I knelt in vain!
His glimmering lamp still, still I see-
"Tis gone-and all is gloom again!
Cold, bitter cold!-no warmth, no light!
Life, all thy comforts once I had!
Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night,
Although not mad! no, no-not mad!
'Tis sure some dream-some vision vain!
What! I-the child of rank and wealth--
Am I the wretch who clanks this chain,
Bereft of freedom, friends, and health?
Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled,

Which never more my heart must glad,
How aches my heart, how burns my head!
But 'tis not mad! it is not mad!

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Hast thou, my child, forgot e'er this
A parent's face, a parent's tongue?
I'll ne'er forget thy parting kiss.

Nor round my neck how fast you clung!
Nor how with me you sued to stay,

Nor how that suit my foes forbade ;

Nor how I'll drive such thoughts away-

They'll make me mad! they'll make me mad!

Thy rosy lips, how sweet they smiled!

Thy mild blue eyes, how bright they shone!
None ever saw a lovelier child!

And art thou now for ever gone?
And must I never see thee more,
My pretty, pretty, pretty lad?
I will be free! Unbar the door!

I am not mad! I am not mad!

Oh, hark! what mean those yells and cries?
His chain some furious madman breaks!
He comes! I see his glaring eyes!

Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes!
Help! help!--he's gone!- -O fearful woe,
Such screams to hear, such sights to see!
My brain, my brain! I know, I know
I am not mad-but soon shall be !

Yes, soon! for, lo now, while I speak,
Mark how yon demon's eye-balls glare!
He sees me! now, with dreadful shriek,
Hé whirls a serpent high in air!
Horror! the reptile strikes his tooth

Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad!
Ay, laugh, ye fiends! I feel the truth!

Your task is done--I'm mad! I'm mad!

LXXII.-BOADICEA.-Cowper.

WHEN the British warrior-queen, bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien, counsel of her country's gods,
Sage, beneath a spreading oak, sat the Druid, hoary chief,
Every burning word he spoke, full of rage, and full of grief.

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Princess, if our aged eyes weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties all the terrors of our tongues.

Rome shall perish! write that word in the blood that she has spilt;
Perish, hopeless and abhorred, deep in ruin, as in guilt!

Rome, for empire far renowned, tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground-hark! the Gaul is at her gates!
-Other Romans shall arise, heedless of a soldier's name;

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, harmony the path to fame!
Then, the progeny that springs from the forests of our land,

Armed with thunder, clad with wings, shall a wider world command.

Regions Cæsar never knew, thy posterity shall sway;

Where his eagles never flew, none invincible as they !"

Such the Bard's prophetic words, pregnant with celestial fire; Bending as he swept the chords of his sweet but awful lyre. She, with all a monarch's pride, felt them in her bosom glow; Rushed to battle, fought, and died,-dying, hurled them on the foe! Ruffians! pitiless as proud, heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestowed, shame and ruin wait for you!"

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LXXIII. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.-Hood.

WITH fingers weary and worn, with eye-lids heavy and red,
A Woman sat, in unwomanly rags, plying her needle and thread:
Stitch! stitch! stitch! in poverty, hunger, and dirt;

And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, she sang the "Song of the
Shirt."

"Work! work! work! while the cock is crowing aloof!

And work-work-work, till the stars shine through the roof!
It's O! to be a slave along with the barbarous Turk,

Where woman has never a soul to save, if this is Christian work!
"Work-work--work-till the brain begins to swim;
Work-work--work-till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band--band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep, and sew them on in a dream!
"O! Men, with Sisters dear!-O! Men! with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out, but human creatures' lives!
Stitch-stitch-stitch, in poverty, hunger, and dirt,

Sewing at once, with a double thread, a shroud as well as a shirt.
"But why do I talk of Death-that phantom of grisly bone?
I hardly fear his terrible shape, it seems so like my own-

It seems so like my own, because of the fasts I keep:

Alas! that bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work--work-work! my labour never flags:

And what are its wages? A bed of straw-a crust of bread-and rags;
That shattered roof--and this naked floor-a table-a broken chair--
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank for sometimes falling there!
"Work--work-work! From weary chime to chime,
Work-work--work, as prisoners work for crime!

Band, and gusset, and seam--seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, as well as the weary hand.

"Work-work--work, in the dull December light,

And work--work-work, when the weather is warm and bright;
While underneath the eaves the brooding swallows cling,

As if to show me their sunny backs, and twit me with the Spring.
"Oh! but to breathe the breath of the cowslip and primrose sweet-
With the sky above my head, and the grass beneath my feet;
For only one short hour to feel as I used to feel,

Before I knew the woes of want, and the walk that costs a meal!

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Oh, but for one short hour! a respite however brief!

No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, but only time for Grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart; but in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop hinders needle and thread."

With fingers weary and worn, with eye-lids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, plying her needle and thread.
Stitch! stitch! stitch! in poverty, hunger, and dirt ;

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
(Would that its tone could reach the rich!)
She sang this "Song of the Shirt."

LXXIV. THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.-Leigh Hunt.

KING Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the Court,

The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by their side,
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he
sighed:

And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show—
Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;

They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their

paws:

With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled on one another,
Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thunderous smother;
The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air;
Said Francis then, "Faith! gentlemen, we're better here than there!"
De Lorge's love o'er-heard the king,- —a beauteous lively dame,
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the

same;

She thought, "The Count my lover is brave as brave can be
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me :

King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine!

I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine!"

She dropped her glove to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled;

He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild.

The leap was quick, return was quick-he has regained the place.— Then threw the glove--but not with love-right in the lady's face. "In truth," cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat :

"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that!"

LXXV.-SONG OF OLD TIME.-Eliza Cook.

I WEAR not the purple of earth-born kings,
Nor the stately ermine of lordly things;

But monarch and courtier, though great they be,
Must fall from their glory, and bend to me.

My sceptre is gemless; yet who can say
They will not come under its mighty sway?

Ye may learn who I am;-there's the passing chime,
And the dial to herald me-Old King Time!

Softly I creep, like a thief in the night,
After cheeks all blooming, and eyes all bright;
My steps are seen on the patriarch's brow,
In the deep-worn furrows, and locks of snow.

Who laughs at my power? The young and the gay:-
But they dream not how closely I track their way.
Wait till their first bright sands have run,

And they will not smile at what Time hath done.

I eat through treasures, with moth and rust:
I lay the gorgeous palace in dust;

I make the shell-proof tower my own,

And break the battlement, stone from stone.
Work on at your cities and temples, proud Man!
Build high as ye may, and strong as ye can;
But the marble shall crumble, the pillar shall fall,
And Time,-Old Time-will be King, after all!

LXXVI. THE KING OF THE WIND.-Eliza Cook.

He burst through the ice-pillared gates of the north,
And away on his hurricane wings he rushed forth:
He exulted all free in his might and his speed,
He mocked at the lion, and taunted the steed:
He whistled along through each cranny and creek;
He whirled o'er the mountains with hollow-toned shriek;
The arrow and eagle were laggard behind,

And alone in his flight sped the King of the Wind!
He swept o'er the earth-the tall battlements fell,
And he laughed, as they crumbled, with maniac yell;
The broad oak of the wood dared to wrestle again,
Till, wild in his fury, he hurled it in twain:
He grappled with pyramids, works of an age,
And dire records were left of his havoc and rage.
No power could brave him, no fetters could bind :
Supreme in his sway was the King of the Wind!
He careered o'er the waters with death and despair;
He wrecked the proud ship--and his triumph was there!
The cheeks that had blanched not at foeman or blade,
At the sound of his breathing turned pale and afraid :
He rocked the stanch light-house, he shivered the mast;
He howled;--the strong life-boat in fragments was cast;
And he roared in his glory, "Where, where will ye find
A despot so great as the King of the Wind ?"

LXXVII. DE BRUCE.-Allan Cunningham.

"DE Bruce! De Bruce!"-With that proud call thy glens, green Galloway,

Grow bright with helm, and axe, and glave, and plumes in close array:

The English shafts are loosed, and see! they fall like winter sleet; The southern nobles urge their steeds-earth shudders 'neath their feet.

Flow gently on, thou gentle Orr, down to old Solway's flood-
The ruddy tide that stains thy stream is England's richest blood

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