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When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks.
Take thy banner! and beneath
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,
Guard it-till our homes are free!
Guard it!—God will prosper thee!
In the dark and trying hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee then.
Take thy banner! But, when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquished warrior bow,
Spare him!--By our holy vow,
By our prayers and many tears,
By the mercy that endears,

Spare him!-he our love hath shared!
Spare him!-as thou wouldst be spared!

Take thy banner !—and if e'er
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
And the muffled drum should beat
To the tread of mournful feet,
Then this crimson flag shall be
Martial cloak and shroud for thee.

LXV. THE RED FISHERMAN.

THE abbot was weary as abbot could be,

W. M. PRAED

And he sat down to rest on the stump of a tree :
When suddenly rose a dismal tone—

Was it a song, or was it a moan?

Oh, ho! oh, ho!

Above, below!

Lightly and brightly they glide and go;
The hungry and keen on the top are leaping,
The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping ;

SHYLOCK TO ANTONIO.

Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy,
Broiling is rich when the coals are ruddy!"
In a monstrous fright, by the murky light,
He look'd to the left and he look'd to the right,
And what was the vision close before him,
That flung such a sudden stupor o'er him?
'Twas a sight to make the hair uprise,
And the life-blood colder run,

The startled priest struck both his thighs,
And the abbey clock struck one!
All alone by the side of the pool,
A tall man sat on a three-legg'd stool
Kicking his heels on the dewy sod,
And putting in order his reel and rod;
Red were the rags his shoulders wore,
And a high red cap on his head he bore;
His arms and his legs were long and bare;
And two or three locks of long red hair
Were tossing about his scraggy neck,
Like a tatter'd flag o'er a splitting wreck.
It might be time, or it might be trouble,
Had bent that stout back nearly double,
Sunk in their deep and hollow sockets
That blazing couple of Congreve rockets,
And shrunk and shrivell'd that tawny skin,
'Till it hardly cover'd the bones within.
The line the abbot saw him throw
Had been fashion'd and form'd long ages ago
And the hands that worked his foreign vest
Long ages ago had gone to their rest:

You would have sworn, as you look'd on them,
He had fished in the flood with Ham and Shem!

LXVI-SHYLOCK TO ANTONIO.

SIGNIOR ANTONIO, many a time and oft,

In the Rialto you have rated me

About my moneys, and my usances;

Still have I borne it with a patient shrug;
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe :

401

SHAKSPEARE.

You call me-misbeliever, cut-throat dog,
And spit upon my Jewish gabardine,
And all for use of that which is mine own.
Well then, it now appears, you need my help:
Go to then; you come to me, and you say,
Shylock, we would have moneys; You say so;
You that did void your rheum upon my beard,
And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur
Over your threshold; moneys is your suit.
What should I say to you? Should I not say,
Hath a dog money? is it possible,

A cur can lend three thousand ducats? or
Shall I bend low, and in a bondsman's key,
With bated breath, and whispering humbleness,
Say thus,-

Fair sir; you spit on me on Wednesday last;
You spurned me such a day; another time
You call'd me— -dog; and for these courtesies
I'll lend you thus much moneys?

LXVII-SPEECH OF ROBESPIERRE.

ONCE more befits it that the voice of Truth,
Fearless in innocence, though leaguer'd round
By envy and her hateful brood of hell,

Be heard amid this hall; once more befits
The patriot whose prophetic eye so oft

COLERIDGE.

Has pierced through faction's veil, to flash on crimes
Of deadliest import.

Soul of my honor'd friend!

Spirit of Marat, upon thee I call

Thou know'st me faithful, know'st with what warm zeal I urged the cause of justice, stripp'd the mask

From faction's deadly visage, and destroy'd

Her traitor brood. Whose patriot arm hurl'd down
Hebert and Rousin, and the villain friends

Of Danton, foul apostate! thou who long
Mark'd Treason's form in Liberty's fair garb,
Long deluged France with blood, and durst defy
Omnipotence! but I, it seems, am false!

I am a traitor too! I-Robespierre!

MORNING MEDITATIONS.

I-at whose name the dastard despot brood
Look pale with fear, and call on saints to help them!
Who dares accuse me? who shall dare belie
My spotless name? Speak, ye accomplice band,
Of what am I accused? of what strange crime
Is Maximilian Robespierre accused

That through this hall the buzz of discontent
Should murmur; who shall speak?

403

LXVIII-MORNING MEDITATIONS.

THOMAS HOOD.

LET Taylor preach upon a morning breezy,
How well to rise while night and larks are flying,
For my part, getting up seems not so easy

By half, as lying.

What if the lark does carol in the sky,
Soaring beyond the sight to find him out-
Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly?

I'm not a trout.

Talk not to me of bees and such like hums,

They smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime; Only lie long enough, and bed becomes

A bed of thyme

To me Dan Phoebus and his cars are naught,
His steeds that paw impatiently about,
Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought,

The first turn out.

Right beautiful the dewy meads appear,
Besprinkled by the rosy-fingered girl-
What then-if I prefer my pillow dear
To early pearl?

My stomach is not ruled by other men's,

And grumbling for a season, quaintly begsWherefore should miser rise before, the hens

Have laid their eggs.

Why from a comfortable pillow start,

To see faint flushes in the east awaken? A fig, say I, for any streaky part,

Excepting bacon.

An early riser, Mr. Grey has drawn,
Who used to haste the dewy grass among,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn—

Well-he died young.

With chairwomen such early hours agree,
And sweeps that earn betimes their bite and sup,
But I'm no climbing boy, and will not be

All up-all up.

So here I'll lie, my morning calls deferring,
'Till something to the stroke of noon;
A man that's fond precociously of stirring,
Must be a spoon.

LXIX. THE CRYSTAL FOUNTAIN.

CONVERSATION BETWEEN AN ANXIOUS MOTHER AND A POLICEMAN AT THE
WORLD'S EXHIBITION. FROM PUNCH.

"GOOD policeman, tell me, pray
Has my daughter passed this way?
You may know her by her bonnet,
Yellow shawl, and brooch upon it,
Far and near I've sought the girl;
I have lost her in the whirl :
Do you think she yonder goes,
Where the Crystal Fountain flows?"

ANONYMOUS.

"Ma'am," says he, "on this here ground,
Whatsomdever's lost is found;
Rest quite heasy in your mind,
I your daughter soon will find!
Though she's got to forrin lands,
Hicy-burgs or Hegypt's sands,
Still, depend on't, soon she goes
Where the Crystal Fountain flows!

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