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Is it the tender star of love?

The star of love and dreams?
O no! from that blue tent above,
A hero's armour gleams.

The earnest thoughts within me rise,
When I behold afar,

Suspended in the evening skies,
The shield of that red star.

O star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain;

Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, And I am strong again.

Within my breast there is no light,
But the cold light of stars;
I give the first watch of the night
To the red planet Mars.

The star of the unconquered will,
He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute and still,
And calm, and self possess'd.

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,
That readest this brief psalm,

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As one by one thy hopes depart,
Be resolute and calm.

O fear not, in a world like this,
And thou shalt know e're long,
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong!



THE Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, [gold; And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, [Galilee. When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, [seen;

'That host with their banners at sunset were Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, [strown. That host on the morrow, lay wither'd and

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

[pass'd; And breath'd on the face of the foe as he And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, [ever grew still! And their hearts but once heaved and for

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, [pride! But through it there rolled not the breath of his And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,

And cold as the spray of the rock beating surf.

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his [alone, And the tents were were all silent, the banners The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown!


And the widows of Asshur are loud in their wail,

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, [Lord! Hath melted like snow in the glance of the



WHEN I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent, which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more

To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He, returning, chide;
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?
I fondly ask: But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his

Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve, who only stand and wait."



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WHEN on the fragrant sandal tree
The woodman's axe descends,

And she who bloom'd so beauteously,
Beneath the keen stroke bends-
E'en on the edge that brought her death,
Dying, she breathes her sweetest breath,
As if to token in her fall

Peace to her foes, and love to all.

How hardly man this lesson learns!

To smile, and bless the hand that spurns ;
To see the blow, and feel the pain,
But render only love again.

This spirit ne'er was given on earth;
One had it-He of heavenly birth,
Revil'd, rejected, and betray'd,
No curse He breath'd—no plaint He made,
But when in death's dark hour He sigh'd
Pray'd for his murderers--and died.



Duke. Give me your hand: Came you old Bellario?



Portia. I did, my
Duke. You are welcome: take your place.

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