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On my bended knee,

I recognize Thy purpose, clearly shown;
My vision Thou hast dimmed, that I may see
Thyself, Thyself alone.

I have naught to fear;

This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing;
Beneath it I am almost sacred-here

Can come no evil thing.

O! I seem to stand

Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been. Wrapped in the radiance from Thy sinless land, Which eye hath never seen.

Visions come and go

Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng;
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow
Of soft and holy song.

It is nothing now,

When heaven is opening on my sightless eyesWhen airs from Paradise refresh my brow; That earth in darkness lies.

In a purer clime,

My being fills with rapture-waves of thought
Roll in upon my spirit-strains sublime
Break over me unsought.

Give me now my lyre!

I feel the stirrings of a gift divine;
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire
Lit by no skill of mine.

VULTURE AND INFANT.

(ANON.)

I've been among the mighty Alps, and wandered thro' their vales,

And heard the honest mountaineers-rel te their dismal

tales,

As round the cotters' blazing hearth, when their daily work was o'er,

They spake of those, who disappeared, and ne'er were heard of more.

And there, I, from a shepherd, heard a narrative of fear,

A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers-might not hear;

The tears were standiug in his eyes, his voice-was tremulous;

But wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus: "It is among these barren cliffs-the ravenous vulture dwells,

Who never fattens on the prey, which from afar he smells;

But, patient, watching hour on hour, upon a lofty rock, He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock.

One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising

high,

When, from my children on the green, I heard a fearful

cry,

As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief, and pain,

cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again. hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed with fright,

he children never ceased to shriek; and, from my frenzied sight,

I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my

care;

But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing thro' the air.

Oh! what an awful spectacle-to meet a father's eye,

His infant-made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry;

And know, with agonizing heart, and with a maniac

rave,

That earthly power-could not avail-that innocent to save!

My infant-stretched his little hands-imploringly to

me,

And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly to get

free:

At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed!

Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed.

The vulture-flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew ;

A mote, upon the sun's broad face, he seemed unto my

view;

But once, I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would

alight,

'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite.

All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne'er forgot,

When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot, From thence, upon a rugged crag-the chamois never

reached,

He saw-an infant's fleshless bones-the elements had

bleached!

I clambered up that rugged cliff-I could not stay

away,

I knew they were my infant's bones-thus hastening to decay;

A tattered garment-yet remained, though torn to many a shred:

The crimson cap-he wore that morn-was still upon his head."

That dreary spot-is pointed out to travelers, passing

by,

Who often stand, and musing, gaze, nor go without a

sigh;

And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny

way,

The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay.

OTHELLO'S APOLOGY.

Most potent, grave, and reverend seigniors
My very noble and approv'd good masters:
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her:
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent; no more.

Rude am I in speech,
And little blessed with the set phrase of peace:
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us'd
Their dearest action in the tented field;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broils and battle;
And therefore, little shall I grace my cause,
In speaking of myself. Yet, by your patience,
I will, a round, unvarnish'd tale deliver,

Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,
What conjuration, and what mighty magic,

(For such proceedings I am charg'd withal) I won his daughter with.

Her father lov'd me; oft invited me;

Still questioned me the story of my life,
From year to year: the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I had past.

I ran it through, e'en from my boyish days,
To the very moment, that he bade me tell it.
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances:
Of moving accidents by flood, and field:

Of hairbreadth 'scapes, in the imminent deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,
And with it all my travel's history.

All these to hear,

Would Desdemona seriously incline;

But still the house affairs would draw her thence.
Which ever as she could with haste despatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear,
Devour up my discourse. Which, I observing,
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate;
Whereof by parcels, she had something heard,
But not distinctly.

I did consent;

And often did beguile her of her tears,

When I did speak of some distressful stroke,
That my youth suffer'd. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs.

She swore in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange, "Twas pitiful; 'twas wondrous pitiful;

She wish'd she had not heard it; yet she wish'd
That heaven-had made her such a man.

She thank'd me,

And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. On his hint I spake;
She lov'd me, for the dangers I had pass'd;
And I lov'd her, that she did pity them.
This is the only witchcraft, which I've used.

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