Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown, advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addressed; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw, in Tempé's vale, her native maids, Amid the festal-sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing; While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Love framed with Mirth a gay, fantastic round— Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And he, amid his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. My blessing with thee! And these few precepts in thy memory: See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar: Bear 't that the opposed may beware of thee. Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy: For the apparel oft proclaims the man; And they in France, of the best rank and station, Are of a most select and generous chief in that. For loan oft loses both itself and friend, -Shakespeare. ABOU BEN ADHEM. ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!) What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord!" "And is mine one?" asked Abou.-"Nay, not so," Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still, and said, “I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." The angel wrote and vanished. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blest. And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest! -Leigh Hunt. CLVII. THe Battle. HEAVY and solemn, A cloudy column, Through the green plain they marching came! Gallops the major along the front.-"Halt!" And fettered they stand at the stark command, Proud in the blush of morning glowing, What on the hill-top shines in flowing? "See you the foeman's banners waving?' "We see the foeman's banners waving." "God be with you, children and wife!" Hark to the music, the drum and fife, How they ring through the ranks which they rouse to the strife! Thrilling they sound, with their glorious tone, Thrilling they go through the marrow and bone! Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er, In the life to come that we meet once more! See the smoke, how the lightning is cleaving asunder! Hark! the guns, peal on peal, how they boom in their thunder! From host to host with kindling sound, The shouted signal circles round; Freer already breathes the breath! The war is waging, slaughter raging, And heavy through the reeking pall Nearer they close, foes upon foes: Ready!" From square to square it goes. They kneel as one man from flank to flank, And the fire comes sharp from the foremost rank. Many a gap by the balls is rent; O'er the corpse before springs the hinder man, The dead men are bathed in the weltering blood, And the living are blent in the slippery flood; And the feet, as they reeling and sliding go, Stumble still on the corpse that sleeps below. "What? Francis! Give Charlotte my last farewell," As the dying man murmurs, the thunders swell. “I'll give—O God! are the guns so near? Ho, comrades! yon volley! look sharp to the rear!— Sleep soft! where death thickest descendest in rain, Hark to the hoofs that galloping go! The horsemen press hard on the panting foe, Victory! Tremor has seized on the dastards all, And their leaders fall! Victory! Closed is the brunt of the glorious fight; And the day, like a conqueror, bursts on the night! Trumpet and fife swelling choral along, The triumph already sweeps marching in song, Farewell, fallen brothers; though this life be o'er, There's another, in which we shall meet you once more! -Schiller. CLVIII. HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY. To be or not to be that is the question! The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks Devoutly to be wish'd. To die-to sleep To sleep?-perchance to dream-aye, there's the rub! Must give us pause! There's the respect, For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Thus, conscience does make cowards of us all: Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; -Shakespeare. CLIX.-SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS AT CAPUA. YE call me chief; and ye do well to call him chief who, for twelve long years, has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast the broad empire of Rome could furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm. If there be one among |