Hark! hark!-the horrid sound As awaked from the dead; See the snakes that they rear, Each a torch in his hand! These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, And, unburied, remain Inglorious on the plain. Give the vengeance due Behold! how they toss their torches on high, And glittering temples of their hostile gods! To light him to his prey; And, like another Helen-fired another Troy. Thus long ago, Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, While organs yet were mute; Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage-or kindle soft desire. At last, divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame. The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store And added strength to solemn sounds, With nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown: He raised a mortal to the skies; PATHETIC AND ENTERTAINING. 1. THE DESTRUCTION OF SENACHERIB.-Byron. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 2. THE FIELD OF GILBOA.-Knox. The sun of the morning looked forth from his throne, And there lay the husband that lately was prest To the beautiful cheek that was tearless and ruddy; But the claws of the eagle were fixed in his breast, And the beak of the vulture was busy and bloody. And there lay the son of the widowed and sad, On the delicate limbs that had ceased not to quiver. And there came the daughter, the delicate child, To kiss the loved lips that were gasping and gory. And there came the consort that struggled in vain To stem the red tide of a spouse that bereft her; And there came the mother that sunk 'mid the slain, To weep o'er the last human stay that was left her. Oh! bloody Gilboa, a curse ever lie Where the king and his people were slaughtered together; May the dew and the rain leave thy herbage to die, Thy flocks to decay, and thy forests to wither! 3. THE SHIELD.-Moore. Oh! did you not hear a voice of death? Was it a wailing bird of the gloom, Which shrieks on the house of wo all night? Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb, To howl and to feed till the glance of light? 'Twas not the death-bird's cry from the wood, See how the red, red lightning strays, Where hangs the shield of this son of death! That shield is blushing with murderous stains, Oft by that yew on the blasted field, 4. THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF.-Hemans. "Oh call my brother back to me, I cannot play alone! The summer comes with flower and bee,― The butterfly is glancing bright Across the sunbeam's track; The flowers run wild-the flowers we sowed Around our garden tree; Our vine is drooping with its load Oh call him back to me!" "He would not hear my voice, fair child! The face that once like spring-time smiled, The rose's brief, bright light of joy, Go, thou must play alone, my boy! "And has he left his birds and flowers? And through the long, long summer hours, And by the brook, and in the glade, 5. THE GIPSY WANDERER.-. 'Twas night, and the farmer, his fireside near, O'er a pipe quaffed his ale, stout and old; The hinds were in bed, when a voice struck his ear, "Let me in, I beseech you!" just so ran the prayer“Let me in !—I am dying with cold." To his servant, the farmer cried-"Sue, move thy feet, At that instant a gipsy-girl, humble in pace- He, starting, exclaimed, "wicked fiend, quit this place! Good sir, as our tribe passed the churchyard below, "This is craft!"-cried the farmer, "If I judge aright, |