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"O World-God, give me Wealth!" the Egyptian cried.

His prayer was granted. High as heaven behold

Palace and Pyramid; the brimming tide Of lavish Nile washed all his land with gold.

Armies of slaves toiled ant-wise at his feet, World-circling traffic roared through mart and street,

His priests were gods, his spice-balmed kings enshrined

Set death at naught in rock-ribbed charnels deep.

Seek Pharaoh's race to-day, and ye shall find

Rust and the moth, silence and dusty sleep.

"O World-God, give me Beauty!" cried the Greek.

His prayer was granted. All the earth be

came

Plastic and vocal to his sense; each peak, Each grove, each stream, quick with Promethean flame,

Peopled the world with imaged grace and light.

The lyre was his, and his the breathing might

Of the immortal marble, his the play

"O World-God, give me Power!" the Roman cried.

His prayer was granted. The vast world was chained

A captive to the chariot of his pride.
The blood of myriad provinces was drained
To feed that fierce, insatiable red heart-
Invulnerably bulwarked every part
With serried legions and with close-meshed

Code.

Within, the burrowing worm had gnawed

its home:

A roofless ruin stands where once abode The imperial race of everlasting Rome.

"O God-head, give me Truth!" the Hebrew cried.

His prayer was granted. He became the slave

Of the Idea, a pilgrim far and wide,
Cursed, hated, spurned, and scourged with

none to save.

The Pharaohs knew him, and when Greece beheld,

His wisdom wore the hoary crown of Eld. Beauty he hath forsworn, and wealth and power.

Seek him to-day, and find in every land. No fire consumes him, neither floods de

vour;

Of diamond-pointed thought and golden Immortal through the lamp within his

tongue.

Go seek the sunshine race. Ye find to-day

A broken column and a lute unstrung.

hand.

EMMA LAZARUS.

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RIENZI TO THE ROMANS.

FROM "RIENZI."

FRIENDS!

I come not here to talk. Ye know too well
The story of our thraldom. We are slaves!
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights
A race of slaves! he sets, and his last beam
Falls on a slave! Not such as, swept along
By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads
To crimson glory and undying fame,
But base, ignoble slaves ! - slaves to a horde
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots; lords
Rich in some dozen paltry villages,
Strong in some hundred spearmen, only great
In that strange spell, - a name ! Each hour,

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I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to ye.
I had a brother once, a gracious boy,

Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope,
Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look
Of Heaven upon his face which linners give
To the beloved disciple. How I loved
That gracious boy! younger by fifteen years,
Brother at once and son ! He left my side;
A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, a smile
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour
The pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried
For vengeance! Rouse ye, Romans ! Rouse
ye, slaves!

Have ye brave sons? - Look in the next fierce brawl

To see them die! Have ye fair daughters? — Look
To see them live, torn from your arms, distained,
Dishonored; and, if ye dare call for justice,
Be answered by the lash! Yet this is Rome,
That sat on her seven hills, and from her throne
Of beauty ruled the world! Yet we are Romans !
Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman
Was greater than a king! And once again
Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread
Of either Brutus ! - once again, I swear,
The eternal city shall be free; her sons shali
walk with princes.

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD

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But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of | Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the

war,

What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?

'Tis thine, O Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the

gate.

A steed comes at morning: no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albin to death and captivity led !
O, weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead;
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave,
Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave.

LOCHIEL.

rock!

But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, All plaided and plumed in their tartan array

WIZARD.

Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day; But man cannot cover what God would reveal; For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before.

Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring

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With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive

king.

Lo! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath,
Behold where he flies on his desolate path!
Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my
sight-

Rise, rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! "T is finished. Their thunders are hushed on the

moors:

Culloden is lost, and my country deplores,
But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where?
For the red eye of battle is shut in despair.
Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, for-
lorn,

Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn?

Ah no! for a darker departure is near;
The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ;
His death-bell is tolling: O mercy, dispel
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell!
Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs,
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims.
Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet,
Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to
beat,

With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale

LOCHIEL.

-

Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale;
For never shall Albin a destiny meet,
So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat!
Though my perishing ranks should be strewed
in their gore,

Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore,
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains,
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,

With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe;
And leaving in battle no blot on his name,

Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of

fame!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

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