age

His autograph upon this page.
Higher than that eagle soars,
Wider than that thunder roars,
His fame shall through the world be
sounding,

And o'er the waves of time be bound-
ing.
Though thousands as obscure as I,
Cling to his skirts, he still will fly
And leap to immortality.
If by his name I write my own,
He'll take me where I am not known,
The cold salute will meet my ear,
Pray, stranger, how did you come
here?"

66

DANIEL WEBSTER.

Stood pretty boys, like smiling Cupids,

With diverse-colored fans, whose wind did seem To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool

And what they undid, did. Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes,

And made their bends adornings: at the helm

A seeming mermaid steers; the silken tackles

Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands,

That yarely frame the office. From the barge A strange invisible perfume hits the

Of the adjacent wharfs. The city

cast

Her people out upon her; and Antony, Enthroned in the market-place, did sit alone,

Whistling to the air; which, but for vacancy,

sense

Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra

too,

And made a gap in nature.

SHAKSPEARE.

And the headsman with his bare arm ready,

That the blow may be both swift and steady,

Feels if the axe be sharp and true-
Since he set its edge anew:
While the crowd in a speechless cir-
cle gather,

To see the son fall by the doom of the father.

It is a lovely hour as yet
Before the summer sun shall set,
And his evening beams are shed
Full on Hugo's fated head,
As, his last confession pouring,
To the monk his doom deploring,
In penitential holiness,
He bends to hear his accents bless
With absolution such as may
Wipe our mortal stains away.

He died, as erring man should die,
Without display, without parade;
Meekly had he bowed and prayed,
As not disdaining priestly aid,
Nor desperate of all hope on high.
BYRON.

FROM THE SIEGE OF CORINTH.

THE night is past, and shines the

sun

As if that morn were a jocund

one.

and brightly breaks

away

Lightly
The morning from her mantle
gray,

And the moon will look on a
sultry day.

Hark to the trump, and the drum,

And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn,

And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne,

And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum,

And the clash, and the shout, "They come, they come!"

The horse-tails are plucked from the ground, and the sword From its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the word.

So is the blade of his scimitar; The Khan and his pachas are all at their post:

The vizier himself at the head of the host.

When the culverin's signal is fired, then On!

Leave not in Corinth a living oneA priest at her altars, a chief in her halls,

A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls.

God and the prophet — Alla Hu!
Up to the skies with that wild halloo!

66

There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to scale;

And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye fail?

He who first downs with the red cross may crave

His heart's dearest wish; let him ask it, and have!" Thus uttered Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier;

The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear, And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire: Silence-hark to the signal

- fire! BYRON.