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On the forecastle Maratan stood.

And poured forth his sorrowful tale; His tears fell unseen in the flood,

And his sighs passed unheard on the gale ;

"Ah wretch!" in wild anguish he cried,
"From country and liberty torn!
Ah! Maratan, would thou had'st died,
Ere o'er the salt waves thou wert borne.

Through the groves of Angola I strayed,
Love and hope made my bosom their home;
There I talked with my favourite maid,
Nor dreamed of the sorrow to come.

From the thicket the man-hunter sprung,
My cries echoed loud through the air;
There was fury and wrath on his tongue,
He was deaf to the voice of despair.

Accursed be the merciless band,

That his love could from Maratan tear;

And blasted this impotent hand,

That was severed from all I held dear.

Flow, ye tears-down my cheeks ever flow;
Still let sleep from my eyelids depart,

And still may the arrows of wo

Drink deep of the stream of my

heart.

But, hark! o'er the silence of night,
My Adila's accents I hear;
And mournful, beneath the wan light,
I see her loved image appear.

How o'er the smooth ocean she glides,

As the mist that hangs light on the wave,

And fondly her lover she chides,

Who lingers so long from his grave.

"Oh Maratan! haste thee,' she cries,
'Here, the reign of oppression is o'er ;

'The tyrant is robbed of his prize,
'And Adila sorrows no more."

Now sinking amidst the dim ray,
Her form seems to fade on my view;
O! stay thee—my Adila, stay!

She beckons, and I must pursue.

To-morrow the white man, in vain,
Shall proudly account me his slave;
My shackles I plunge in the main,
And rush to the realms of the brave!"

Anonymous.

13.-THE CURSE.

'Tis not that now

I shrink from what is suffered : let him speak
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow,
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak;
But in this page a record will I seek.

Not in the air shall these my words disperse,
Though I be ashes; a far hour shall wreak
The deep prophetic fulness of this verse,
And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse.

That curse shall be Forgiveness.-Have I not-
Hear me, my mother Earth! behold it, Heaven!-
Have I not had to wrestle with my lot?
Have I not suffered things to be forgiven?

Have I not had my brain seared, my heart riven,
Hopes sapped, name blighted, Life's life lied away,
And only not to desperation driven,

Because not altogether of such clay

As rots into the souls of those whom I survey?

From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy

Have I not seen what human things could do?
From the loud roar of foaming calumny
To the small whisper of the as paltry few,
And subtler venom of the reptile crew,
The Janus glance of whose significant eye,
Learning to lie with silence, would seem true,
And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh,
Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy.

But I have lived, and have not lived in vain ;
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire,

And my frame perish even in conquering pain ;
But there is that within me, which shall tire
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire ;
Something unearthly, which they deem not of,
Like the remembered tone of a mute lyre;
Shall on their softened spirits sink, and move,
In hearts all rocky now, the late remorse of love.

BYRON.

14. THE GLADIATOR.

I SEE before me the Gladiator lie:

He leans upon his hand-his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his drooped head sinks gradually low—
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow,
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now
The arena swims around him-he is gone,

Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.

He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He recked not of the life he lost or prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,-
There were his young barbarians all at play;
There was their Dacian mother-he their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday-

All this rushed with his blood—shall he expire
And unavenged?-Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!

15.-VISION OF BELSHAZZAR.

THE King was on his throne,
The Satraps thronged the hall;
A thousand bright lamps shone
O'er that high festival.
A thousand cups of gold,
In Judah deemed divine-
Jehovah's vessels hold

The godless Heathen's wine!

BYRON.

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16. THE DYING CHIEF.

THE stars looked down on the battle-plain,
Where night-winds were deeply sighing,
And with shattered lance near his war-steed slain,
Lay a youthful chieftain dying.

He had folded round his gallant breast
The banner, once o'er him streaming,
For a noble shroud, as he sunk to rest
On the couch that knows no dreaming.

Proudly he lay on his broken shield,
By the rushing Guadalquiver,

While, dark with the blood of his last red field,
Swept on the majestic river.

There were hands which came to bind his wound,
There were eyes o'er the warrior weeping,
But he raised his head from the dewy ground,
Where the land's high hearts were sleeping!

And "Away!" he cried-" your aid is vain,
66 My soul may not brook recalling,—
"I have seen the stately flower of Spain
"Like the Autumn vine-leaves falling!

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I have seen the Moorish banners wave

"O'er the halls where my youth was cherished;
I have drawn a sword that could not save;
"I have stood where my king hath perished!

"Leave me to die with the free and brave,
"On the banks of my own bright river!
"Ye can give me nought but a warrior's grave,
"By the chainless Guadalquiver!"

17. THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE.

Anonymous.

THERE's a white stone placed upon yonder tomb,
Beneath is a soldier lying;

The death-wound came amid sword and plume,
When banner and ball were flying.

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