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"I am! I was!-ere thine ideal shone I was its embryo; I its life divine; The Uncreated One

The real, th' incarnate thine.

"I gave thee will, did I deny thee power? Fire sunward flies-thy loss is lost in meLook from the fleeting hour,

To mine eternity.

"If out of life it seems to droop and die, So long as God amid archangels stands, Thy pure ideal on high

Its worshipper demands."

EVENING HYMN.

From a volume of poems lately published by ANNA BLACKWELL.

How sweet the fall of Eve,

When, in the glowing West,

The sun hath sunk to rest,

Yet shining footprints on the air doth leave;
While through the deepening twilight, soft and slow,
The fragrant evening breezes come and go!

How beautiful, when light

Hath fled; and leaf and stream

Rest in a quiet dream.

Within the curtaining shadows of the Night;
While troops of stars look down with dewy rays,
And flowers droop their eyes beneath their gaze.

How silent is the air!

Who would not at such shrine

To holier thoughts incline?

The ever-tranquil Night was made for prayer.
On the hush'd Earth, from the o'er-arching sky,
Doth not a solemn benediction lie?

And when the hours of night
Have slowly roll'd away,
And the victorious Day

Athwart the kindling air speeds arrowy light,
How gloriously, as in a second birth,
Awake to radiant life the heavens and earth!

So, when Life's eve shall fall,

Within my peaceful breast
Oh may Thy presence rest,

Soft as the hush of night, Father of All!
So from the sleep of death, with quickening ray,
Wake me to radiant life, Thou God of Day!

THE COMBAT.

Sir WALTER SCOTT.

THEN each at once his faulchion drew,
Each on the ground his scabbard threw,
Each look'd to sun, and stream and plain,
As what he ne'er might see again;
Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,
In dubious flight they darkly closed.-
Ill fared it now with Roderick Dhu,
That on the field his targe he threw,
Whose brazen studs, and tough bull-hide,
Had death so often dash'd aside;
For, train'd abroad his arms to wield,
Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield:
He practised every pass and ward,
To feint, to thrust, to strike, to guard :
While, less expert, though stronger far,
The Gael maintain'd unequal war.
Three times in closing strife they stood,
And thrice the Saxon sword drank blood;
No stinted draught-no scanty tide!
The gushing flood the tartans dyed:
Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,
And shower'd his blows like wintry rain;

And as firm tower, or castle-roof,
Against the winter shower is proof,
The foe, invulnerable still,

Foiled his wild rage by steady skill;
Till at advantage ta'en his brand
Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand,
And backwards borne upon the lea,
Brought the proud chieftain to his knee :-
"Now yield thee, or by Him who made
The world! thy heart-blood dyes my blade."
"Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy ;
Let recreant yield, who fears to die."-
Like adder darting from his coil-
Like wolf that dashes through the toil—
Like mountain-cat that guards her young,-
Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung;
Received, but reck'd not of a wound,
And lock'd his arms his foeman round.
Now, gallant Saxon! hold thy own;
No maiden's hand is round thee thrown!
That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,
Through bars of brass and triple steel.
They tug, they strain, down, down they go,-
The Gael above, Fitz-James below!
The chieftain's gripe his throat compress'd,
His knee was planted in his breast;
His clotted locks he backward threw,
Across his brow his hand he drew,
From blood and mist to clear his sight-
Then gleam'd aloft his dagger bright;
But hate and fury ill supplied
The stream of life's exhausted tide;
And all too late the advantage came,
To turn the odds of deadly game.
For, while the dagger gleam'd on high,
Reel'd soul and sense, reel'd brain and eye.
Down came the blow-but in the heath
The erring blade found bloodless sheath.—
The struggling foe may now unclasp
The fainting chief's relaxing grasp.
Unwounded, from the dreadful close,
But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.

THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.

By Sir HENRY WOTTON, (born 1568, died 1640.)

How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepared for death, Untied unto the worldly care

Of public fame, or private breath:

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great.

Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend:

This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.

LEAVES AND MEN.

By EBENEZER Elliott.

DROP, drop into the grave, Old Leaf,
Drop, drop into the grave;
Thy acorns grown, thy acorns sown-
Drop, drop into the grave.
December's tempests rave, Old Leaf,
Above the forest grave, Old Leaf;
Drop, drop into the grave!

The birds in spring will sweetly sing,
That Death alone is sad;

The grass will grow, the primrose show,
That Death alone is sad;

Lament above thy grave, Old Leaf;
For what has Life to do with Grief?
'Tis Death alone that's sad.

What then? We two have both lived through The sunshine and the rain;

And bless'd be He, to me and thee,

Who sent His sun and rain :

We 've had our sun and rain, Old Leaf;
And God will send again, Old Leaf,
The sunshine and the rain.

Race after race of leaves and men
Bloom, wither, and are gone:
As winds and waters rise and fall,
So life and death roll on;

And long as ocean heaves, Old Leaf,
And bud and fade the leaves, Old Leaf,
Will life and death roll on.

How like am I to thee, Old Leaf!
We'll drop together down;
How like art thou to me, Old Leaf!
We'll drop together down.

I'm grey and thou art brown, Old Leaf!
We'll drop together down, Old Leaf,
We'll drop together down.

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