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The Lord and the Judge.-LOMONOSOV.*

THE God of gods stood up-stood up to try
The assembled gods of earth. "How long," he said,


How long will ye protect impiety,

And let the vile one raise his daring head?
'Tis yours my laws to justify-redress
All wrong, however high the wronger
Nor leave the widow and the fatherless
To the cold world's uncertain sympathy.
'Tis yours to guard the steps of innocence,
To shield the naked head of misery;
Be 'gainst the strong, the helpless one's defence,
And the poor prisoner from his chains to free."
They hear not-see not-know not-for their eyes
Are covered with thick mists-they will not see;
The sick earth groans with man's iniquities,
And heaven is tired with man's perversity.



Gods of the earth! ye Kings! who answer not
To man for your misdeeds, and vainly think
There's none to judge you ;-know, like ours, your lot
Is pain and death:-ye stand on judgment's brink.


And ye like fading autumn-leaves will fall;
Your throne but dust-your empire but a grave—
Your martial pomp a black funereal pall—
Your palace trampled by your meanest slave.
God of the righteous! O our God! arise,
O hear the prayer thy lowly servants bring:
Judge, punish, scatter, Lord! thy enemies,
And be alone earth's universal king.

The House-builder.-KHEMNITZER.*
WHATE'ER thou purposest to do,
With an unwearied zeal pursue;
To-day is thine-improve to-day,
Nor trust to-morow's distant ray.
*From Bowring's Specimens of Russian Poets.

A certain man a house would build ;
The place is with materials filled;
And every thing is ready there-
Is it a difficult affair?

Yes! till you fix the corner-stone ;
It wont erect itself alone.

Day rolls on day, and year on year,
And nothing yet is done-
There's always something to delay
The business to another day.

And thus in silent waiting stood
The piles of stone and piles of wood
Till Death, who in his vast affairs
Ne'er puts things off-as men in theirs-
And thus, if I the truth must tell,
Does his work finally and well—
Winked at our hero as he past,

Your house is finished, Sir, at last;
A narrower house-a house of clay-
Your palace for another day!"


Hope triumphant in death.-CAMPBELL.

UNFADING Hope! when life's last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to ust return, Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour! Oh! then thy kingdom comes, Immortal Power! What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye! Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life's eternal day— Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin! And all the Phoenix spirit burns within!

Oh! deep-enchanting prěl'ude to repose, The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes! Yet half I hear the parting spirit sigh, It is a dread and awful thing to die! Mysterious worlds, untravell❜d by the sun! Where Time's far-wandering tide has never run, From your unfathom'd shades, and viewless spheres, A warning comes, unheard by other ears.

'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud,
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud!
While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust,
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust;
And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod
The roaring waves, and called upon his God,
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss,
And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss!

Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb! Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul! Fly, like the moon-ey'd herald of Dismay, Chas'd on his night-steed by the star of day! The strife is o'er-the pangs of Nature close, And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze, The noon of Heaven, undazzled by the blaze, On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, Float the sweet tones of star-born melody; Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight still Watch'd on the holy towers of Zion hill!

Soul of the just! companion of the dead! Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled? Back to its heavenly source thy being goes, Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose ; Doom'd on his airy path awhile to burn, And doom'd, like thee, to travel, and return.Hark! from the world's exploding centre driven, With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven, Careers the fiery giant, fast and far, On bickering wheels, and adamantine car ; From planet whirl'd to planet more remote, He visits realms beyond the reach of thought; But, wheeling homeward, when his course is run, Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun! So hath the traveller of earth unfurl'd

Her trembling wings, emerging from the world;
And, o'er the path by mortal never trod,
Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God!


Lines written during a thunder storm.—DMITRIEV.*
Ir thunders! Sons of dust, in reverence bow!
Ancient of days! Thou speakest from above:
Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now;
That hand which scatters peace and joy and love
Almighty trembling like a timid child,
I hear thy awful voice-alarmed—afraid—
I see the flashes of thy lightning wild,
And in the very grave would hide my head.

Lord! what is man? Up to the sun he flies-
Or feebly wanders through earth's vale of dust:
There is he lost 'midst heaven's high mysteries,
And here in error and in darkness lost :
Beneath the storm-clouds, on life's raging sea,
Like a poor sailor-by the tempest tost
In a frail bark-the sport of destiny,
He sleeps and dashes on the rocky coast.

Thou breathest ;—and the obedient storm is still :
Thou speakest ;-silent the submissive wave:
Man's shattered ship the rushing waters fill,
And the hush'd billows roll across his grave.
Sourceless and endless God! compared with Thee,
Life is a shadowy, momentary dream :
And time when viewed through Thy eternity,
Less than the mote of morning's golden beam.


Interview between Waverley and Fergus Mac-Ivor, at Carlisle, previous to the execution of the latter.-SCOTT.

AFTER a sleepless night, the first dawn of morning found Waverley on the esplanade in front of the old Gothic gate of Carlisle castle. But he paced it long in every direction before the hour when, according to the rules of the garri son, the gates were opened, and the drawbridge lowered. He produced his order to the sergeant of the guard, and was admitted. The place of Fergus's confinement was a gloomy

* Bowring's Specimens of Russian Poets.

and vaulted apartment in the central part of the castle; a huge old tower, supposed to be of great antiquity, and surrounded by outworks, seemingly of Henry VIII's time, or somewhat later. The grating of the huge old-fashioned bars and bolts, withdrawn for the purpose of admitting Edward, was answered by the clash of chains, as the unfortunate chieftain, strongly and heavily fettered, shuffled along the stone floor of his prison, to fling himself into his friend's arms.


My dear Edward," he said, in a firm and even cheerful voice, "this is truly kind. I heard of your approaching happiness with the highest pleasure; and how does Rose? and how is our old whimsical friend the Baron? Well, I am sure, from your looks-and how will you settle precē'dence between the three ermines passant, and the bear and boot-jack?""How, O how, my dear Fergus, can you talk of such things at such a moment ?"—" Why, we have entered Carlisle with happier auspices, to be sure-on the 16th of November last, for example, when we marched in, side by side, and hoisted the white flag on these ancient towers. But I am no boy, to sit down and weep because the luck has gone against me. I knew the stake which I risked; we played the game boldly, and the forfeit shall be paid manfully.


You are rich," he continued, "Waverley, and you are generous; when you hear of these poor Mac-Ivors being distressed about their miserable possessions by some harsh overseer or agent of government, remember you have worn their tartan, and are an adopted son of their race. The Baron, who knows our manners, and lives near our country, will apprize you of the time and means to be their protector. Will you promise this to the last Vich Ian Vohr ?”. Edward, as may well be believed, pledged his word; which afterwards he so amply redeemed, that his memory still lives in these glens by the name of the Friend of the Sons of Ivor." Would to God," continued the chieftain, "I could bequeath to you my rights to the love and obedience of this primitive and brave race: or at least, as I have striven to do, persuade poor Evan to accept of his life upon their terms; and be to you what he has been to me, the kindest -the bravest-the most devoted- 99

The tears which his own fate could not draw forth, fell fast for that of his foster-brother. "But," said he, drying them, "that cannot be. You cannot be to them Vich Ian

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