Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of Trent;

Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile,

And the red glare of Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.

THE

DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB'S ARMY. BY BYRON.

THE Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the

sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he past;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved-and for ever grew
still.

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride, And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent-the banners alone-
The lances unlifted-the trumpets unblown.

And the widows of Asshur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

FAREWELL TO ENGLAND.
BY BYRON.

ADIEU, adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee
My native land-Good night!

A few short hours and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;
My dog howls at the gate.

And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea;

But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?

Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands;

But long ere I come back again,

He'd tear me where he stands.

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine,

Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,
So not again to mine.

Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves!
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!
My native land-Good night!

THE CLOUD.

BY SHELLEY.

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet birds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.

Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers
Lightning, my pilot, sits;

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,—
It struggles and howls at fits;

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills and the crags and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains.

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The Spirit he loves remains;

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile
While he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning-star shines dead.

As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake racks and swings,

An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings;

[neath

And when sunset may breathe from the lit sea be

Its ardours of rest and of love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,

With wing folded, I rest on mine airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn ;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

F

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes and seas,

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.

I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;

*

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain, when, with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare,

[gleams,

And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex
Build up the blue dome of air,

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,

[tomb,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the I arise and unbuild it again.

ON SKATING.

BY DR. JOHNSON.

O'ER crackling ice, o'er gulfs profound,
With nimble glide the skaters play:
O'er treacherous pleasure's flowery ground
Thus lightly skim and haste away.