a mighty conqueror. Not thine any more, but the nation's; not ours, but the world's. Give him place, O ye prairies! In the midst of this great continent his dust shall rest, a sacred treasure to myriads who shall pilgrim to that shrine to kindle anew their zeal and patriotism. Ye winds that move over the mighty places of the West, chant his requiem! Ye people, behold a martyr whose blood, as so many articulate words, pleads for fidelity, for law, for liberty! THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET. 'ER a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray, Where, in his last strong agony, a dying warrior lay The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been bent By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent. "They come around me here, and say my days of life are o'er That I shall mount my noble steed, and lead my band no more; They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now that I, Their own liege lord and master born, that I-ha! ha!—must die. "And what is death? I've dared him oft, before the Paynim spear: ye Think he's entered at my gate - has come to seek me here? I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the fight was raging hot: I'll try his might, I'll brave his power!-defy, and fear him not! "Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the culverin; An hundred hands were busy then; the banquet forth was spread, Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mailed retainers poured, On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the board; While at its head, within his dark, carved, oaken chair of state, Armed cap-à-pie, stern Rudiger, with girded falchion, sate. "Fill every beaker up, my men! - pour forth the cheering wine! There's life and strength in every drop- thanksgiving to the vine! Are ye all there, my vassals true? - mine eyes are waxing dim: Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the brim! "Ye're there, but yet I see you not!-forth draw each trusty sword, And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board! I hear it faintly! — louder yet! What clogs my heavy breath ? Up, all!-and shout for Rudiger, 'Defiance unto death!"" Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, and rose a deafening cry, That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on high: "Ho! cravens! do ye fear him? Slaves! traitors! have ye flown? Ho! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone? "But I defy him! - let him come!" Down rang the massy cup, While from its sheath the ready blade came flashing halfway up; And, with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on his head, There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, old Rudiger sat-dead! DAVID'S LAMENT OVER ABSALOM. HE king stood still THE Till the last echo died: then, throwing off "Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die! "Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee: How was I went to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet 'My father' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom! "The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush, “And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom! "And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee: And thy dark sin!-Oh! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My erring Absalom!" He covered up his face, and bowed himself And, as if strength were given him of God, ROBERT BRUCE AND THE SPIDER. FOR OR Scotland's and for Freedom's right Been conquered and dismay'd; A hut's lone shelter sought. And cheerless was that resting-place The rude rough beams alone; The sun rose brightly, and its gleam And tinged with light each shapeless beam When, looking up with wistful eye, The Bruce beheld a spider try His filmy thread to fling From beam to beam of that rude cot; Taught Scotland's future king. Six times his gossamery thread In vain the filmy line was sped; Each aim appear'd, and back recoil'd And yet unconquer'd still; And soon the Bruce, with eager eye, One effort more, the seventh and last; And on the wish'd-for beam hung fast Slight as it was, his spirit caught The more than omen, for his thought Which even "he who runs may read," ANTONY'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS. RIENDS, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears: FRI I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones: He was my friend, faithful and just to me: |