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HENRY ABBEY.

THE CALIPH'S MAGNANIMITY.

A TRAVELLER across the desert waste

Found on his way a cool, palmshaded spring,

And the fresh water seemed to his pleased taste,

In the known world, the most delicious thing.

"Great is the caliph!" said he; "I for him

Will fill my leathern bottle to the brim."

He sank the bottle, forcing it to drink Until the gurgle ceased in its lank throat;

And as he started onward, smiled to

think

That he for thirst bore God's sole antidote.

Days after, with obeisance low and meet,

He laid his present at the caliph's feet.

Forthwith the issue of the spring was poured

Into a cup, on whose embossed outside,

Jewels, like solid water, shaped a gourd.

The caliph drank, and seemed well satisfied,

Nay, wisely pleased, and 'straightway gave command

To line with gold the man's workhardened hand.

The courtiers, looking at the round reward,

Fancied that some unheard-of virtue graced

The bottled burden borne for their loved lord,

And of the liquid gift asked but to

taste.

The caliph answered from his potent throne:

"Touch not the water; it is mine alone!"

But soon-after the humble giver

went.

O'erflowing with delight, which bathed his faceThe caliph told his courtiers the intent

Of his denial, saying: "It is base Not to accept a kindness when expressed

By no low motive of self-interest.

"The water was a gift of love to me, Which I with golden gratitude repaid.

I would not let the honest giver see That, on its way, the crystal of the shade

Had changed, and was impure; for so, no less,

His love, thus scorned, had turned to bitterness.

"I granted not the warm, distasteful draught

To asking lips, because of firm mistrust,

Or kindly fear, that, if another quaffed,

He would reveal his feeling of disgust,

And he, who meant a favor, would depart,

Bearing a wounded and dejected heart."

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CATO'S SOLILOQUY.

IT must be so-Plato, thou reason'st

well!

Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,

This longing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,

Of falling into nought? why shrinks the soul

Back on herself, and startles at destruction?

'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter,

And intimates eternity to man. Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!

Through what variety of untried being,

Through what new scenes and changes must we pass? The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a power

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Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life,

My bane and antidote, are both before me:

This in a moment brings me to an end;

But this informs me I shall never die.

The soul, secured in her existence, smiles

At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.

The stars shall fade away, the sun himself

Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;

But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,

Unhurt amidst the wars of elements,

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.

What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?

This lethargy that creeps through all my senses?

Nature oppressed, and harassed out with care,

Sinks down to rest. This once I'll

favor her,

That my awakened soul may take her flight,

Renewed in all her strength, and fresh with life,

An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear

Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither of them; Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die.

MARK AKENSIDE.

ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY.

COME then, tell me, sage divine,
Is it an offence to own
That our bosoms e'er incline

Toward immortal Glory's throne?

For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure,
Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure,
So can fancy's dream rejoice,
So conciliate reason's choice,
As one approving word of her impar,
tial voice.

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