And yet the vilest, meanest thing, Lost in the smallest speck we see. BLESSING OF SLEEP. Shakespere. SLEEP! gentle sleep! Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lulled with sounds of sweetest melody? Oh! thou dull god, why liest thou with the In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch; Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deaf'ning clamors in the slippery clouds, PALESTINE. FAMED land of the olive, the fig tree, and vine, Loved home of the patriarch, fair Palestine! We mourn for thy greatness, departed how soon, Which erst 'mid the nations upbore thee. Since the blast of the dreadful and deadly simoon Hath swept with its pestilence o'er thee, And hath left thee a wilderness dreary and still, For the wandering Arab to roam at his will. Thy cities which tower'd 'mid the landscape to view, Once crowded and many, are lonesome and few; Can this be the land for which nations of old gold, Which fired with ambition the children of fame, The chivalrous, dauntless Crusaders ? The land where the terror-crowned Saladin came Το cope with his country's invaders? Yes, this is the land for which Europe's red cross Contended so long and so vainly, alas! But 'tis not the warrior's blood crimson sign That hallows the land of the fig tree and vine; Nor the deeds of great Richard and Godfrey, howe'er, The wild charms of romance are flung o'er them. No! a greater than Richard or Godfrey was there, And hallowed the country before them; 'Twas He, who, unmindful of shame or disgrace, Trod the winepress alone for earth's reprobate race. THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. Byron. THERE was a sound of revelry by night, men; A thousand hearts beat happily, and when Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spoke again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell: But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! Did ye not hear it? no; 'twas but the wind, meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet- Within a window'd niche of that high hall And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear: And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well, Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone can quell! He rushed into the field, and foremost fighting fell. Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise? |