"'T is true," I'd not believe them more than thee, All-noble Marcius. Let me twine
Mine arms about that body, where-against My grained ash an hundred times hath broke, And scared the moon with splinters! Here I clip The anvil of my sword; and do contest As hotly and as nobly with thy love, As ever in ambitious strength I did Contend against thy valor. Know thou first,
I loved the maid I married; never man Sighed truer breath; but that I see thee here, Thou noble thing! more dances my rapt heart Than when I first my wedded mistress saw Bestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars! I tell thee,
We have a power on foot; and I had purpose Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn,
Or lose mine arm for 't. Thou hast beat me out | Stood forth in Bagdad daily, in the square Twelve several times, and I have nightly since Dreamt of encounters 'twixt thyself and me, We have been down together in my sleep, Unbuckling helms, fisting each other's throat, And waked half dead with nothing. Worthy Marcius,
Where once had stood a happy house, and there Harangued the tremblers at the scymitar On all they owed to the divine Jaffar.
Had we no other quarrel else to Rome, but that Thou art thence banished, we would muster all From twelve to seventy; and, pouring war Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome,
Like a bold flood o'erbear. O, come! go in, And take our friendly senators by the hands; Who now are here, taking their leaves of me, Who am prepared against your territories, Though not for Rome itself.
A thousand welcomes! And more a friend than e'er an enemy; Yet, Marcius, that was much.
WHEN TO THE SESSIONS OF SWEET SILENT THOUGHT.
WHEN to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long-since-cancelled woe, And moan the expense of many a vanished sight. Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan, Which I new pay, as if not paid before;
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
JAFFAR, the Barmecide, the good vizier, The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer, Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust; And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust Of what the good, and e'en the bad, might say, Ordained that no man living from that day Should dare to speak his name on pain of death. All Araby and Persia held their breath;
All but the brave Mondeer: he, proud to show How far for love a grateful soul could go, And facing death for very scorn and grief (For his great heart wanted a great relief),
"Bring me this man," the caliph cried; the man Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began To bind his arms. Welcome, brave cords," cried he;
"From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me; From wants, from shames, from loveless house- hold fears;
Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears; Restored me, loved me, put me on a par With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?"
Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss, Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate Might smile upon another half as great. He said, "Let worth grow frenzied if it will; The caliph's judgment shall be master still. Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem, The richest in the Tartar's diadem,
And hold the giver as thou deemest fit!"
Gifts!" cried the friend; he took, and holding it
High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star,
Exclaimed, "This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar!"
THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.
"We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few short moments; and then days, months, years intervene, and we see and know nothing of each other."- WASHINGTON IRVING.
Two barks met on the deep mid-sea, When calms had stilled the tide ; A few bright days of summer glee There found them side by side.
And voices of the fair and brave Rose mingling thence in mirth ; And sweetly floated o'er the wave The melodies of earth.
Moonlight on that lone Indian main Cloudless and lovely slept ; While dancing step and festive strain Each deck in triumph swept.
And hands were linked, and answering eyes With kindly meaning shone ; O, brief and passing sympathies, Like leaves together blown!
O, the last ray of feeling and life must depart Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart!
Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green; 'T was not the soft magic of streamlet or hill, O, no! it was something more exquisite still.
'T was that friends, the beloved of my bosom,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature im
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet Vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best;
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.
ALAS! they had been friends in youth: But whispering tongues can poison truth; And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain. And thus it chanced, as I divine, With Roland and Sir Leoline! Each spoke words of high disdain
And insult to his heart's best brother; They parted, ne'er to meet again!
But never either found another To free the hollow heart from paining. They stood aloof, the scars remaining, Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; A dreary sea now flows between, But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLeridge.
Then gi'e me your hand,
we are brethren a'. Ye would scorn to do fausely by woman or man ; I haud by the right aye, as weel as I can ; We are ane in our joys, our affections, an' a': Come, gi'e me your hand, — we are brethren a’.
Your mother has lo'ed you as mithers can lo'e; An' mine has done for me what mithers can do ; We are ane high an' laigh, an' we shouldna be
CHRISTMAS is here; Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,
Little care we ; Little we fear Weather without, Sheltered about The mahogany-tree.
Once on the boughs Birds of rare plume
Sang, in its bloom;
Night-birds are we; Here we carouse, Singing, like them, Perched round the stem Of the jolly old tree.
Here let us sport, Boys, as we sit, Laughter and wit Flashing so free.
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