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War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honor, but an empty bubble ;

Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying.

If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, oh! think it worth enjoying !

Lovely Thais sits beside thee;
Take the good the gods provide thee.-

The many rend the skies with loud applause;
So love was crowned, but music-won the cause.

The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

Gazed on the fair, who caused his care,
And sighed and looked ; sighed and looked ;

Sighed and looked; and sighed again :
At length, with love, and wine, at once oppress'd,
The vanquished victor—sunk-upon her breast.

Now, strike the golden lyre again;

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain :
Break his bands of sleep asunder,
And rouse hiin like a rattling peal of thunder.

Hark! hark the horrid sound
Hath raised up his head, as awaked from the

dead,
And amazed he stares aronnd.
Revenge, revenge! Timotheus cries-
See the furies arise! See the snakes that they rear,

How they hiss in the air,
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes !
Behold a ghastly band, each a torch in his hand!
These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain,
An, unburied, remain inglorious on the plain.
Give the vengeance due to the valiant crew.
Behold, how they toss their torches on high !

How they point to the Persian abodes,

And glittering temples of their hostile gods ! The princes applaud, with a furious joy ; And the king seizes a flambeau with zeal to destroy:

Thais led the way, to light him on bis prey ; And, like another Helen-fired another Troy.

Thus, long ago, ere heaving bellows learned to blow,

While organs yet were mute; Timotheus, to his breathing flute and sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.

At last, divine Cecilia came,

Inventress of the vocal frame.
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,

Enlarged the former narrow bounds,

And added length—to solemn sounds,
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both-divide the crown;
He-raised a mortal—to the skies;

She-drew an angel down.

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

(HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.)
Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw;
And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all,-

“Forever-never!

Never-forever !"

Half-way up the stairs it stands.
And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk, who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,-

" Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

By day its voice is low and light;
But in the silent dead of night,

Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,
And seems to say at each chamber door,

Forever-never !

Never-forever!”

Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe,-

" Forever-never!

Never-forever !"

In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality:
His great fires up the chimney roared ;
The stranger feasted at his board ;
But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning timepiece never ceased, -

“ Forever-never !

Never-forever!"

There groups of merry children played,
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed ;
() precious hours! O golden prime,
Land affluence of love and time!
Even as a miser counts his gold,
Those hours the ancient timepiece told, -

“Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night;
There, in that silent room below,
The dead lay in his shroud of snow;

And in the hush that followed the prayer,
Was heard the old clock on the stair,-

“ Forever-never!

Never-forever!”

All are scattered now and fled,
Some are married, some are dead;
And when I ask, with throbs of pain,
“Ah! when shall they all meet again ?”
As in the days long since gone by,
The ancient timepiece makes reply,

“ Forever-never !

Never—forever !"

Never here, forever there,
Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time shall disappear,–
Forever there, but never here!
The horologe of Eternity
Sayeth this incessantly,

“Forever-never!

Never-forever !"

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

(LONGFELLOW.) Under a spreading chestnut tree,

The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms,

Are strong, as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;

His face-is like the tan;
His brow--is wet with honest sweat;

He earns-whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

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Week out, week in, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;
You hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton, ringing the old kirk chimes,

When the evening sun is low.
And children, coming home from school,

Look in at the open door;
They love to see a flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks, that fly

Like chatl—from a threshing-floor.
He goes, on Sunday, to the church,

And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson-pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing-in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him, like her mother's voice,

Singing-in paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies;
And with his harul-rough hand he wipes

A tear from out his eyes. Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowing

Onward-through life he goes: Each morning-sees some task begin,

Each evening--sees it close; Something attempted--something done,

Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus-at the flaming forge of Life,

Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus, on its sounding anvil shaped,

Each burning deed, and thought.

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