A MOTHER'S GRATITUDE-RUSILLA.
GOOD Father, I have heard
From my old faithful servant and true friend, T'hou did'st reprove the inconsiderate tongue, That in the anguish of its spirit pour'd A curse upon my poor unhappy child. O, Father Maccabee, this is a hard world, And hasty in its judgments! Time has been, When not a tongue within the Pyrenees Dared whisper in dispraise of Roderick's name, Lest if the conscious air had caught the sound The vengeance of the honest multitude Should fall upon the traitorous head, or brand For life-long infamy the lying lips.
Now if a voice be raised in his behalf,
'Tis noted for a wonder, and the man
Who utters the strange speech shall be admired For such excess of Christian charity.
Thy Christian charity hath not been lost ;- Father, I feel its virtue :-it hath been
Halm to my heart :-with words and grateful tears, All that is left me now for gratitude,-
I thank thee, and beseech thee in thy prayers That thou wilt still remember Roderick's name
BUILD UP A COLUMN TO BOLIVAR !
BUILD up a column to Bolivar! Build it under a tropic star! Build it high as his mounting fame! Crown its head with his noble name! Let the letters tell, like a light afar, "This is the column of Bolivar !” Soldier in war, in peace a man,
Did he not all that a hero can? Wasting his life for his country's care, Laying it down with a patriot prayer, Shedding his blood like the summer rain, Loving the land, though he loved in vain! Man is a creature, good or ill,
Little or great, at his own strong will; And he grew good, and wise, and great, Albeit he fought with a tyrant fate, And shower'd his golden gifts on men, Who paid him in basest wrongs again! Raise the column to Bolivar ! Firm in peace, and fierce in war! Shout forth his noble, noble name! Shout till his enemies die, in shame! Shout till Columbia's woods awaken Like seas by a mighty tempest shaken-
Till pity, and praise, and great disdain, Sound like an Indian hurricane ! Shout, as ye shout in conquering war, While ye build the column to Bolivar!
A MONARCH'S GRATITUDE.-SAR
STAY a moment, my good Salamenes,
My brother, my best subject, better prince Than I am king. You should have been the monarch,
And I-I know not what, and care not; but
Think not I am insensible to all
Thine honest wisdom, and thy rough, yet kind, Though oft reproving, sufferance of my follies. If I have spared these men against thy counsel, That is, their lives-it is not that I doubt
The advice was sound; but let them live: we will
Cavil about their lives-so let them mend them. Their banishment will leave me still sound sleep, Which their death had not left me.
BY CHARLES LAMB
ALONE, obscure, without a friend A cheerless, solitary thing, Why seeks my Lloyd the stranger out? What offering can the stranger bring. Of social scenes, home-bred delights, That him in ought compensate may For Storvey's pleasant winter nights, For loves and friendships far away? In brief oblivion to forego
Friends, such as thine, so justly dear, And be awhile with me content To stay, a kindly loiterer, here. For this a gleam of random joy
Hath flush'd my unaccustomed cheek; And with an o'ercharged, bursting heart, I feel the thanks I cannot speak. Oh! sweet are all the Muses' lays, And sweet the charm of matin bird; 'Twas long since these estranged ears The sweeter voice of friend had heard. The voice hath spoke: the pleasant sounds In memory's ear in after time
Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear,
And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme. For, when the transient charm is fled, And when the little week is o'er, To cheerless, friendless, solitude, When I return as heretofore, Long, long, within my aching heart
The grateful sense shall cherish'd be;
I'll think less meanly of myself,
That Lloyd will sometimes think on me.
CONRADE'S REFUSAL TO ASSASIN. ATE SEYD.
GULNARE-Gulnare-I never felt till now My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low: Seyd is my enemy: hath swept my band From earth with ruthless but with open hand, And therefore came I, in my bark of war, To smite the smiter with the scimitar; Such is my weapon-not the secret knife; Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. Thine saved I gladly, lady, not for this- Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. Now fare thee well-more peace be with thy
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