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a creek, on one side of which arose a precipitous hill, some two miles in length, which I knew the wounded animal would never ascend. Half a mile farther on, another hill reared its bleak and barren head, on the opposite side of the rivulet. Once fairly in the gorge, there was no exit, save at the upper end of the ravine. Here then I must intercept my game, which I was able to do, by taking a near cut over the ridge, that saved at least a mile.

Giving one parting shout to cheer my dog, Cherokee bore me headlong to the pass. I had scarcely arrived, when, black with sweat, the stag came laboring up the gorge, seemingly totally reckless of our presence. Again I poured forth the leaden messenger of death,' as meteor-like he flashed by us. One bound, and the noble animal lay prostrate within fifty feet of where I stood. Leaping from my horse, and placing one knee upon his shoulder, and a hand upon his antlers, I drew my hunting-knife; but scarcely had its keen point touched his neck, when, with a sudden bound, he threw me from his body, and my knife was hurled from my hand. In hunter's parlance, I had *only creased him.' I at once saw my danger; but it was too late. With one bound he was upon me, wounding and almost disabling me, with his sharp feet and horns. I seized him by his wide-spread antlers, and sought to regain possession of my knife; but in vain; each new struggle drew us farther from it. Cherokee, frightened at this unusual scene, had madly fled to the top of the ridge, where he stood looking down upon the combat, trembling and quivering in every limb.

The ridge road I had taken, had placed us far in advance of the hound, whose bay I could not now hear. The struggles of the furious animal had become dreadful, and every moment I could feel his sharp hoofs cutting deep into my flesh; my grasp upon his antlers was growing less and less firm; and yet I relinquished not my hold. The struggle had brought us near a deep ditch, washed by the heavy fall rains, and into this I endeavored to force my adversary; but my strength was unequal to the effort; when we approached to the very brink, he leaped over the drain ; I relinquished my hold, and rolled in, hoping thus to escape him. But he returned to the attack, and throwing himself upon me, inflicted numerous severe cuts upon my face and breast, before I could again seize him. Locking my arms around his antlers, I drew his head close to my breast, and was thus, by a great effort, enabled to prevent his doing me any serious injury. But I felt that this could not last long; every muscle and fibre of my frame was called into action, and human nature could not long bear up under such exertion. Faltering a silent prayer to heaven, I prepared to meet my fate.

At this moment of despair, I heard the faint bayings of the hound. The stag, too, heard the sound, and springing from the ditch, drew me with him. His efforts were now redoubled, and I could scarcely cling to him. Yet that blessed sound came nearer and nearer! O how wildly beat my heart, as I saw the hound emerge from the ravine, and spring forward, with short quick bark, as his eye rested on his game. I released my hold of the stag, who turned upon this new enemy. Exhausted and unable to rise, I still cheered the dog, that, dastard-like, fled before the infuriated animal, who, seemingly despising such an enemy, again threw himself upon me. Again did I succeed in throwing my arms around his antlers, but not until he had inflicted several deep and dangerous wounds upon my head and face, cutting to the very bone.

Blinded by the flowing blood, exhausted and despairing, I cursed the coward dog, who stood near, baying furiously, yet refusing to seize his game. O how I prayed for Bravo! The thoughts of death were bitter. To die thus, in the wild forest, alone, with none to help! Thoughts of home and friends coursed like lightning through my brain. At that moment of desperation, when Hope herself had fled, deep and clear, over the neighboring hill, came the bay of my gal. lant Bravo! I should have known his voice among a thousand! I pealed forth, in one faint shout, · On, Bravo ! on!' The next moment, with tiger-like bounds, the noble dog came leaping down the declivity, scattering the dried autumnal leaves like a whirlwind in his path. • No pause he knew,' but fixing his fangs in the stag's throat, at once commenced the struggle.

I fell back, completely exhausted. Blinded with blood, I only knew that a terrific struggle was going on. In a few moments all was still, and I felt the warm breath of my faithful dog, as he licked my wounds. Clearing my eyes from gore, I saw my late adversary dead at my feet; and Bravo, my own Bravo,' as the heroine of a modern novel would say, standing over me. He yet bore around his neck a fragment of the rope with which I had tied him. He had gnawed it in two, and following his master through all his windings, arrived in time to rescue him from a horrid death.

I have recovered from my wounds. Bravo is lying at my feet. Who does not love Bravo ? I am sure I do; and the rascal knows it! Don't you, Bravo ? Come here, Sir!

E. R. W.

BA YLE.

Who had escaped the tomb, could wit prevail,
Or wisdom? Wit and Wisdom answer, BAYLE!
Star of a lowering sky, that shunned the light,
Still more refulgent from surrounding night;
He wielded Luther's force, without his rage,
Erasmus and Melancthon of his age ;
Young eyes that o'er his ponderous folios pore,
Deem them too much, yet read and wish them more.

11.

And to that feast return, divided quite
Betwixt instruction, wonder, and delight:
Yet he that knew so much, decided nought;
Lost in perplexity or depth of thought,
Holding the key of Truth within his hand,
On Doubt, her vestibule, behold him stand,
And point, like Moses, to that brighter spoi,
Pursued, explored, attained, but entered not.

RUINS AT PÆSTUM.

BY REV. J. PIERPONT, AUTHOR OF AIRS OF PALESTINE,' ETC.

Call ye these ruins ? What is ruined here?
What fallen shaft - what broken capital -
What architraves or friezes, sca:tered round?
What leaning walls, with ivy overrun,
Or forced asunder by the roots of trees,
That have struck through them, tell you here was once
A finished temple - now o'erthrown by Time?

Secms it not, rather, a majestic fane,
Now going up, in honor of some god,
Whose greatness or whose beauty had impressed
The builder's soul with reverence profound,
And an entire devotion ? It is true,
No tools of architects are seen around,
Compass, or square, or plummet, with its line;
Else, one might argue that the artisans
Had gone to dinner, and would soon return,
To carry on the work they had begun,
And, thus far, done so well. Yet, long ago,
The laborers who hewed these massy blocks,
And laid them where they lie; who grooved these shafts
To such a depih, and with such perfect truth,
Were called off from their work : not called, indeed,
With sweating brow, to eat their daily bread;
But to lie down in the long sleep of death,
To rest from all their labors, and to mix
Their own dust with the dust that autumn's blasts
Or summer's whirlwind drives across this plain,
And through these voiceless temples, that now stand,
Their only, their mysterious monument.

Mysterious ? Ay; for, if ye ask the age
That saw these temples rise, or in what tongue
The service was performed, or to what god
This fane or that was dedicate, no name,
Inscribed along the architrave, records
By whom, or to whom, wherefore built, or when.
And, if ye ask the Muse of History,
'Non mi recordo,' is her sole reply.
Tradition, too, that prates of all things else,
Is silent as to this. One only ray
Shoots through the darkness that broods o'er these fancs ;
But that is not more worthy of our trust,
Than is the ignis faluüs that, at times,
Swims doubtfully by night across this plain,
Seeking, not finding rest. It is the ray
Thrown from the lamp of Logic, reasoning thus:
She has been told that Pæstum's ancient name
Was Posidonia. She has also learned
That, by the Greeks, old Neptune, Ocean's god,
Was called Poseidon. 'Ergo,' says the dame,
Who, from slight data, draws conclusions grave,
'Pæstum was Neptune's city; and the lane
That, in its grandeur and magnificence,
Excels the rest, must have been Neptune's temple.'
But wherefore Neptune's? Standing on this plain,
That stretches seaward for a league or more,
These massy columns never could have seen
Themselves reflected from the glassy wave,
When it lay sleeping on the nearest shore;
Nor could the surge, when lifted by the storm,
Have ever fallen, and bathed their feet in foam.

Nor could old ocean's monarch, while he dwelt
Within his own domains, have e'er beheld
The votive gifts suspended from these walls,
Or heard the prayers or praises offered here;
Unless, indeed, the zealous worshipper
Had, with a trumpet, called upon his god,
And spoken in thunders louder than his own;
Or - which is far from probable - unless
The god had taken a carriage at the beach,
And been get down here at his own expense,
Whene'er he wished to show his peaceful head *
To those who bowed in worship at his shrine.

I've seen seven columns, standing now at Corinth,
On five of which — for two bear nothing up -
Some portion of the entablature remains;
And that old ruin the same style displays
Of severe Doric beauty, that prevails
In these grave works of hoar antiquity.
But to what god rose the Corinthian fane,
Or when, or by what architect, 't was reared,
How much below the time of Sisyphus,
Who laid the corner-stone of Corinth's state,
How much above the æra of Timoleon,
Whom that proud state commissioned to dethrone
The tyrant Dionysius, and convey
A Grecian colony to Syracuse —
'Tis all unknown. The ruins there, and here,
of the saine genius speak, and the same age;
And in the same oblivion both have slept
For more than two milleniums. Roman bards
Have of the rosaries of Pæstum sung,
Twice blooming in a year. And he who first
Held in his hands the empire of the world --
Augustus Cæsar — visited this spot,
As I do now, to muse among these columns,
Of times whose works remain, whose history's lost.

And yet the palace of that same Augustus,
Built, as you know, upon the Palatine,
With all ihat Rome could do to hold it up
Beneath the pressure of the hand of Time,
Is now all swept away, even to the floor.
This little piece of marble, jaune antique,
Which now I use to keep ihese Sibyl leaves,
(As she of Cumæ cared not to keep hers)
From floating off, on every wind that blows,
Before the printer gives them leave to fly,
Once formed a part of that same palace floor.
Among the weeds and bushes that o'erhang
The giant arches that the floor sustained,
I picked it up. Those arches, and the mass
Of bricks beneath them, and the floor above,
And bushes as aforesaid hanging o'er,
And, with their roots, helping the elements
To pry apart what Roman masons joined,
And fit the lower creature for the use
of the superior - converting thus
Things inorganic, mortar, bricks, and stones,
To soil, that it may feed organic life,
Grass, flowers, and trees, that they, in turn, may serve
As food for animals, and they for man,
According to the eternal laws of God --
Are all, of Cæsar's palace, that remains.

* Placidum caput. - Virg. Æn. 1. 127.
Biferi rosaria Pæsti.- Virg. Georg. iv. 119.

Tepidi rosaria Pasti.- Ovid, Met. xv. 708 | Nec revocare situs, aut jungere carmina curat. Virg. Æn. m. 451.

But of this solemn temple, not a shaft
Hath fallen, nor yet an architrave or frieze,
Triglyph or metope. Dissolution's work,
The work of frost and moisture, cold and heat,
Has not, on this old sanctuary, begun.
The suns and rains of ages seem not yet
On any one of all these ponderous stones
To have given root to the minutest plant.
Not even a lichen or a moss has dared
To fix itself and flourish on these dry
And everlasting blocks of travertine.
The sun has only touched them with a linge
Of his own gold. And, as I sit between
These columns, and observe how gently fall
His beams upon them, and how soft and calm
The air is, as it sleeps upon their sides,
(Even now, though 't is a January day,)
How gingerly that quick-eyed lizard runs,
In the warm sunshine, up and down their grooves,
It seems as if the very heavens and earth,
With all the elements and crecping things,
Had formed a league to keep eternal silence
Within, above, and all around this pile,
To see how many ages more 't would stand.

Methinks, even now, as the soft wind Rows through
These noble colonnades, as through the strings
Of an Eolian harp, I hear a low
And solemn voice - it is the temple's voice -
Though in what language it addresses me,
Greek, Latin, or Italian, it were hard
For Mezzofanti or the Polyglott,
Without a close attention, to decide ;
For, since this temple pyenostyle hath stood,
It hath been exercised to many a tongue;
And to my ear it says, or seems to say:
'Stranger, I know as little of the world
From which thou comést, as thou dost of the time
From which I came: 'tis only yesterday
To me, since it was known there was a world
West of the promontories thou 'st heard called
The 'Pillars of my old friend Hercules.
I was so young, when I was first set up,
That I've forgotten who my builders were,
Or to what god my altars were devoted ;
Else would I tell thee; for, I know the Muse
Would, through the lines which thou wilt write of me,
Preserve the knowledge to all future time.
But Hercules - the friend of whom I've spoken-
I well remember, and for ever shall :
For, once he sat where thou art sitting now.
It was, I think, when he was on his way
From Thebes to Calpè, when he went to help
Atlas, his father-in-law, hold up the heavens.
I told him, then, that if he'd bring them here,
And lay them on my shoulders, I'd uphold
The whole of them to all eternity.

Excuse what, to thy cold and western ear,
May savor, somewhat, of hyperbolè!
But, friend, it is the privilege of age
To be laudator acti temporis.
And, long since then, I've heard events, unmoved,
Which shook all Italy with their report,
And, ever since, have echoed round the globe.
For, I was quite in years when Hannibal
Came down the Alps, and at the river Ticin,
Which, on thy journey homeward, thou shalt crogs,
O'erthrew the Romans under Scipio :

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