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What pierceth the king like the point of a dart?
What drives the bold blood from his cheek to his

heart?

"Chaldeans! Magicians! the letters expound !"

They are read-and Belshazzar is dead on the ground! Hark! The Persian is come on a conqueror's wing; And a Mede's on the throne of Belshazzar the king!

GAMBLER'S WIFE.
(COATES.)

Dark is the night! How dark! No light: No fire!
Cold, on the hearth, the last faint sparks expire!
Shivering, she watches, by the cradle side,

For him, who pledged her love-last year a bride!

"Hark! "Tis his footstep! No!-'tis past!-'tis gone!" Tick!-Tick!" How wearily the time crawls on! Why should he leave me thus ?-He once was kind! And I believed 'twould last!-How mad!-How blind!

"Rest thee, my babe!-Rest on !-'Tis hunger's cry!
Sleep! For there is no food !-The font is dry!
Famine and cold their wearying work have done.
My heart must break! And thou!" The clock strikes

one.

"Hush! 'tis the dice-box! Yes! he's there! he's there! For this for this he leaves me to despair!

Leaves love! leaves truth! his wife! his child! for what? The wanton's smile-the villain—and the sot!

"Yet I'll not curse him. No! 'tis all in vain! 'Tis long to wait, but sure he'll come again! And I could starve, and bless him, but for you, My child-his child! Oh, fiend!" The clock strikes

two.

"Hark! How the sign-board creaks! The blast howls

by. Moan! moan! A dirge swells through the cloudy sky! Ha! 'tis his knock! he comes!-he comes once more!" "Tis but the lattice flaps! Thy hope is o'er!

"Can he desert us thus? He knows I stay,
Night after night, in loneliness, to pray
For his return-and yet he sees no tear!
No! no! It cannot be! He will be here!

"Nestle more closely, dear one, to my heart! Thou'rt cold! Thou'rt freezing! But we will not part! Husband!-I die-Father!-It is not he!

Oh, God! protect my child!" The clock strikes three.

They're gone, they're gone! the glimmering spark hath fled!-

The wife, and child, are number'd with the dead.
On the cold earth, outstretched in solemn rest,
The babe lay, frozen on its mother's breast:
The gambler came at last-but all was o'er-
Dread silence reigned around:-the clock struck four!

THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED

(CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY.)

Tread softly,-bow the head,—
In reverent silence bow;
No passing-bell doth toll,-
Yet an immortal soul

Is passing now.

Stranger, however great,

With holy reverence bow;-
There's one in that poor shed,—
One by that paltry bed,-

Greater than thou.

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Oh, change-oh, wondrous change!Burst are the prison bars,

This moment, there, so low,

So agonized, and now

Beyond the stars!

Oh, change!-stupendous change!
There lies the soulless clod;

The sun eternal breaks,—

The new immortal wakes,

Wakes with his God!

CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

(ALFRED TENNYSON.)

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

"FORWARD THE LIGHT BRIGADE!
CHARGE FOR THE GUNS!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"FORWARD, THE LIGHT BRIGADE!”
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Some one had blundered:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die,—
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them,
Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well;

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,

Flashed as they turned in air,
Sabreing the gunners there,

Charging an army, while

All the world wondered:

Plunged in the battery-smoke,

Right through the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the sabre-stroke,

Shattered and sundered :

Then they rode back-but not,

Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them
Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them—
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,

Noble Six Hundred!

MILTON ON HIS LOSS OF SIGHT.

I am old and blind!

Men point at me as smitten by God's frown;
Afflicted and deserted of my kind,

Yet I am not cast down.

I am weak, yet strong;
I murmur not, that I no longer see;
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong,
Father Supreme! to thee.

O merciful One!

When men are farthest, then Thou are most near, When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun, Thy chariot I hear.

Thy glorious face

Is leaning toward me, and its holy light
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place-
And there is no more night.

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