and gravity, since they all evidently suppose extension. It is, therefore, superfluous to inquire particularly concerning each of them. In denying extension you have denied them all to have any real existence.

ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING ARTS AND LEARNING IN AMERICA.

BY BISHOP BERKELEY.

THE Muse, disgusted at an age and clime
Barren of every glorious theme,

In distant lands now waits a better time,
Producing subjects worthy fame;

In happy climes, where from the genial sun
And virgin earth such scenes ensue,
The force of art by nature seems outdone
And fancied beauties by the true;

In happy climes the seat of innocence,
Where nature guides and virtue rules,
Where men shall not impose, for truth and sense,
The pedantry of courts and schools,

There shall be sung another golden age,
The rise of empire and of arts,
The good and great uprising epic rage,
The wisest heads and noblest hearts.

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay;
Such as she bred when fresh and young,
When heavenly flame did animate her clay,
By future poets shall be sung.

Westward the course of empire takes its way;
The first four acts already past,

The fifth shall close the drama with the day;
Time's noblest offspring is the last.

MAZEPPA'S RIDE.

BY LORD BYRON.

[LORD GEORGE NOEL GORDON BYRON : A famous English poet; born in London, January 22, 1788. At the age of ten he succeeded to the estate and title of his granduncle William, fifth Lord Byron. He was educated at Harrow and Cambridge, and in 1807 published his first volume of poems, "Hours of Idleness." After a tour through eastern Europe he brought out two cantos of "Childe Harold," which met with instantaneous success, and soon after he married the heiress Miss Millbanke. The union proving unfortunate, Byron left England, and passed several years in Italy. In 1823 he joined the Greek insurgents in Cephalonia, and later at Missolonghi, where he died of a fever April 19, 1824. His chief poetical works are: "Childe Harold," "Don Juan," "Manfred," "Cain," "Marino Faliero," "Sardanapalus," "The Giaour," "Bride of Abydos," "The Corsair," "Lara," and "Mazeppa."]

"BRING forth the horse!"- the horse was brought

In truth he was a noble steed,

A Tartar of the Ukraine breed,

Who looked as though the speed of thought

Were in his limbs; but he was wild,

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught,

Away!-away! - My breath was gone-
I saw not where he hurried on:
'Twas scarcely yet the break of day,
And on he foamed — away! — away! -
The last of human sounds which rose,
As I was darted from my foes,
Was the wild shout of savage laughter,
Which on the wind came roaring after
A moment from that rabble rout:
With sudden wrath I wrenched my head,
And snapped the cord, which to the mane
Had bound my neck in lieu of rein,

And writhing half my form about,

Howled back my curse; but 'midst the tread, The thunder of my courser's speed,

Perchance they did not hear nor heed:

It vexes me for I would fain

Have paid their insult back again.
I paid it well in after days:
There is not of that castle gate,

Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight,
Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left;
Nor of its fields a blade of grass,

Save what grows on a ridge of wall,
Where stood the hearthstone of the hall;
And many a time ye there might pass,
Nor dream that e'er that fortress was:
I saw its turrets in a blaze,
Their crackling battlements all cleft,

And the hot lead pour down like rain From off the scorched and blackening roof, Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. They little thought that day of pain, When launched, as on the lightning's flash, They bade me to destruction dash,

That one day I should come again, With twice five thousand horse, to thank The Count for his uncourteous ride. They played me then a bitter prank,

When, with the wild horse for my guide, They bound me to his foaming flank: At length I played them one as frank For time at last sets all things even And if we do but watch the hour, There never yet was human power Which could evade, if unforgiven, The patient search and vigil long Of him who treasures up a wrong.

Away, away, my steed and I,

Upon the pinions of the wind,
All human dwellings left behind;
We sped like meteors through the sky,
When with its crackling sound the night
Is checkered with the northern light:
Town - village - none were on our track,
But a wild plain of far extent,
And bounded by a forest black. . .

VOL. XVI.7

The sky was dull, and dim, and gray,
And a low breeze crept moaning by -
I could have answered with a sigh-
But fast we fled, away, away -
And I could neither sigh nor pray;
And my cold sweat drops fell like rain
Upon the courser's bristling mane;
But, snorting still with rage and fear,
He flew upon his far career:

At times I almost thought, indeed,
He must have slackened in his speed;
But no
my bound and slender frame
Was nothing to his angry might,
And merely like a spur became :
Each motion which I made to free
My swoln limbs from their agony

Increased his fury and affright:

I tried my voice, - 'twas faint and low,
But yet he swerved as from a blow;
And, starting to each accent, sprang
As from a sudden trumpet's clang:
Meantime my cords were wet with gore,
Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er;
And in my tongue the thirst became
A something fierier far than flame.

We neared the wild wood -'twas so wide,

I saw no bounds on either side;

"Twas studded with old sturdy trees,

That bent not to the roughest breeze

Which howls down from Siberia's waste,

And strips the forest in its haste,

But these were few, and far between

Set thick with shrubs more young and green,

Luxuriant with their annual leaves,

Ere strewn by those autumnal eves
That nip the forest's foliage dead,

Discolored with a lifeless red,

Which stands thereon like stiffened gore

Upon the slain when battle's o'er,

And some long winter's night hath shed

Its frost o'er every tombless head,
So cold and stark the raven's beak
May peck unpierced each frozen cheek:
'Twas a wild waste of underwood,
And here and there a chestnut stood,

The strong oak and the hardy pine;
But far apart and well it were,
Or else a different lot were mine.

The boughs gave way, and did not tear
My limbs; and I found strength to bear
My wounds, already scarred with cold.
My bonds forbade to loose my hold.
We rustled through the leaves like wind,
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind;
By night I heard them on the track,
Their troop came hard upon our back,
With their long gallop, which can tire
The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire:
Where'er we flew they followed on,
Nor left us with the morning sun;
Behind I saw them, scarce a rood,

At daybreak winding through the wood, And through the night had heard their feet

Their stealing, rustling step repeat.

Oh how I wished for spear or sword,

At least to die amidst the horde,

And perish if it must be so
At bay, destroying many a foe.
When my first courser's race begun,
I wished the goal already won;
But now I doubted strength and speed.
Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed
Had nerved him like the mountain roe;
Nor faster falls the blinding snow
Which whelms the peasant near the door
Whose threshold he shall cross no more,
Bewildered with the dazzling blast,

Than through the forest paths he past-
Untired, untamed, and worse than wild;
All furious as a favored child

Balked of its wish; or fiercer still-
A woman piqued - who has her will.

The wood was past; 'twas more than noon,
But chill the air, although in June;

Or it might be my veins ran cold-
Prolonged endurance tames the bold;
And I was then not what I seem,
But headlong as a wintry stream,
And wore my feelings out before