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Vipers, that creep where man disdains to climb;
And having wound their lothsome track to the top
Of this huge moldering monument of Rome,
Hang hissing at the nobler man below.

Come, consecrated lictors! from your thrones; (To the senate.) Fling down your sceptres;-take the rod and axe, And make the murder, as you make the law.

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What is it that shoots from the mountains so high,
In many a beautiful spire?

What is it that blazes and curls to the sky?
This beautiful something is-fire.

Loud noises are heard in the caverns to groan,
Hot cinders fall thicker than snow,

Huge stones to a wonderful distance are thrown,
For burning fire rages below.

When winter blows bleak, and loud bellows the storm,
And frostily twinkle the stars;

Then bright burns the fire in the chimney so warm,
And the kettle sings shrill on the bars.

Then call in the poor traveler, covered with snow,
And warm him with charity kind;

Fire is not so warm as the feelings that glow
In the friendly, benevolent mind.

By fire rugged metals are fitted for use;
Iron, copper, gold, silver, and tin;
Without its assistance we could not produce
So much as a-minikin pin.

Fire rages with fury wherever it comes;

If only one spark should be dropt,
Whole houses or cities, sometimes it consumes
Where its violence cannot be stopt.

And when the great morning of judgment shall rise,
How wide will its blazes be curled!

With heat, fervent heat, it shall melt down the skies,
And burn up this beautiful world.

5.

THE WARNING.-Anonymous.

The fly around the candle wheels,
Enjoys the sport, and gaily sings,
Till nearer, nearer drawn, he feels

The flame like lightning, singe his wings;
Then weltering in the pool, beneath he lies,
And, limb by limb, scorched miserably, dies.
From bough to bough the wild bird hops,
Where late he caroled blithe and free;
Now downward, downward, lo! he drops-
Faint, fluttering, helpless, from the tree;
While, stretched below with eye of deadly ray,
The eager
rattlesnake expects his prey.

Thou, child of pleasure, art the fly
Caught with a taper's dazzling glare;
Thou art the bird, that meets an eye
Alluring to the serpent's snare:

Oh! stay;-is reason fled ?-is conscience dumb?
Be wise be warned,-escape the wrath to come.

Not swifter o'er the level course

The racer glances to the goal,

Than thou with blind and headlong force,

Art running on to lose thy soul :

Then, though thou win the world, how dear the cost! Can the whole world avail a spirit lost?

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Fleet are the rapid moments! fly they must;
Not to be stayed by masque or midnight roar!
Nor shall a pulse, among that moldering dust,
Beat wanton at the smiles of beauty more!
Can the deep statesman, skilled in great design,
Protract but for a day precarious breath?
Or the tuned follower of the sacred nine

Soothe, with his melody, insatiate death?
No:-though the palace bar her golden gate,
Or monarchs plant ten thousand guards around,
Unerring, and unseen, the shaft of fate
Strikes the devoted victim to the ground!

What then avails ambition's wide-stretched wing,
The schoolman's page, or pride of beauty's bloom!
The crape-clad hermit, and the rich-robed king,
Leveled, lie mixed promiscuous in the tomb.
The Macedonian monarch, wise and good,
Bade, when the morning's rosy reign began,
Courtiers should call, as round his couch they stood,
"Philip! remember, thou'rt no more than man:
Though glory spread thy name from pole to pole !
Though thou art merciful, and brave, and just;
Philip, reflect, thou'rt posting to the goal,
Where mortals mix in undistinguished dust!"

7. THE DYING HORSE.-Blackett.

Heaven! what enormous strength does death possess !
How muscular the giant's arm must be

To grasp that strong-boned horse, and, spite of all
His furious efforts, fix him to the earth!
His writhing fibres speak his inward pain,
His smoking nostrils speak his inward fire!
Oh! how he glares!—and hark! methinks I hear
His bubbling blood, which seems to burst the veins;
How still he's now ;-how fiery hot,-how cold!
How terrible, how lifeless!—all within

A few brief moments! my reason staggers!
Philosophy, thou poor enlightened dotard,
Who canst assign for every thing a cause,
Here take thy stand beside me, and explain
This hidden mystery. Bring with thee
The headstrong atheist, who laughs at heaven,
And impiously ascribes events to chance,
To help to solve this wonderful enigma!
First, tell me, ye proud haughty reasoners,
Where the vast strength this creature late possessed
Has fled to? How the bright sparkling fire,
Which flashed but now from these dim rayless eyes,
Has been extinguished-Oh, he's dead! you say-
I know it well :—but how, and by what means?
What!-not a word!-I ask you once again;
How comes it that the wondrous essence,

Which gave such vigor to those strong-nerved limbs,
Has leapt from its enclosure, and compelled

This noble workmanship of nature thus
To sink into a cold inactive clod?

Nay sneak not off thus cowardly!-Poor fools,
Ye are as destitute of information

As is the lifeless subject of my thoughts!
Now, moralizer,

Retire! yet first proclaim this sacred truth:
Chance rules not over death: but when a fly
Falls to the earth, 'tis heaven that gives the blow.

8. TO-MORROW.-Anonymous.

Who says "To-morrow still is mine?"
As if his eye could peer

Through the thick mists of future time,
And trace out life's career:
To-morrow! stranger, it may be
A phantom never grasped by thee.

How canst thou tell to-morrow's sun
Shall shine around thy path?
Thy mortal work may then be done,
And thou mayst sleep in death.
Oh! say not then, "To-morrow's mine"-
The present hour alone is thine.

Hast thou not seen the eager child
The butterfly pursue?

He almost grasped it as he smiled,
It vanished from his view.

And oh has not to-morrow seemed,
To some, as near-yet never beamed?

Where is to-morrow? hidden deep
From human ear or eye;

And, who shall smile, or who shall weep,
No mortal may descry.

And he that lives upon to-morrow,

Shall often drink the cup of sorrow.

But should to-morrow never rise,

What other scenes would meet thee?

Were earth to vanish from thine eyes,

Would heaven's bright splendors greet thee?

Oh! then it matters not to thee,

Even should "to-morrow" never be.

9. THE FLIGHT OF XERXES.-Jewsbury.

I saw him on the battle-eve,

When, like a king, he bore him,— Proud hosts in glittering helm and greave, And prouder chiefs before him:

The warrior, and the warrior's deedsThe morrow, and the morrow's meeds,No daunting thoughts came o'er him; He looked around him, and his eye Defiance flashed to earth and sky.

He looked on ocean,-its broad breast
Was covered with his fleet;

On earth :-and saw, from east to west,
His bannered millions meet:

While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast,
Shook with the war-cry of that host,
The thunder of their feet!

He heard the imperial echoes ring,-
He heard,—and felt himself a king,

I saw him next alone :-nor camp,
Nor chief, his steps attended;
Nor banner blazed, nor courser's tramp
With war-cries proudly blended.
He stood alone, whom fortune high

So lately seemed to deify;

He, who with heaven contended,

Fled like a fugitive and slave!

Behind, the foe ;-before,-the wave.

He stood;-fleet, army, treasure,—gone,—
Alone, and in despair!

But wave and wind swept ruthless on,
For they were monarchs there;
And Xerxes, in a single bark,

Where late his thousand ships were dark,

Must all their fury dare:

What a revenge-a trophy, this-
For thee, immortal Salamis!

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