Though the virgins of Salem lament,
Be the judge and the hero unbent !
I have won the great battle for thee,
And my father and country are free!
When this blood of thy giving hath gushed,
When the voice that thou lovest is hushed,
Let my memory still be thy pride,
And forget not I smiled as I died!

86.

The Soldier.

Now in myself I notice take
What life we soldiers lead,

LORD BYRON.

My hair stands up, my heart doth ache,
My soul is full of dread;
And to declare

This horrid fear,
Throughout my bones I feel
A shiv'ring cold

On me lay hold,

And run from head to heel.

It is not loss of limbs or breath
Which hath me so dismayed,
Nor mortal wounds, nor groans of death
Have made me thus arrayed:

When cannons roar,

I start no more

Than mountains from their place,
Nor feel I fears,

Though swords and spears

Are darted in my face.

A soldier it would ill become
Such common things to fear,
The shouts of war, the thund'ring drum,
His courage up doth cheer;
Though dust and smoke

His passage choke,

He boldly marcheth on,
And thinketh scorn

His back to turn,

Till all be lost or won.

The flashing fires, the whizzing shot,

Distemper not his wits;

The barbed steed he dreadeth not,
Nor him who thereon sits;
But through the field,

With sword and shield,
He cutteth forth his way,
And through a flood
Of reeking blood
Wades on without dismay.

That whereupon the dread begins
Which thus appalleth me,
Is that huge troop of crying sins
Which rife in soldiers be;
The wicked mind,

Wherewith I find

Into the field they go,
More terror hath

Than all the wrath

And engines of the foe.

Defend me, Lord! from those misdeeds
Which my profession shame,
And from the vengeance that succeeds
When we are so to blame :

Preserve me far

From acts of war,

Where thou dost peace command ;

And in my breast

Let mercy rest,

Though justice use my hand.

Be thou my leader to the field,
My head in battle arm;
Be thou a breastplate and a shield,
To keep my soul from harm;
For live or die,

I will rely

On Thee, O Lord! alone;

And in this trust,
Though fall I must,

I cannot be undone.

G. WITHER.

87.

To Keep a True Lent.

"Behold, ye fast for strife and debate, and to smite with the fist of wickedness: Is it such a fast that I have chosen? a day for a man to afflict his soul? Is it to bow down his head as a bulrush, and to spread sackcloth and ashes under him? wilt thou call this a fast?

"Is not this the fast that I have chosen? to loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke?

"Is it not to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house? .

"And if thou draw out thy soul to the hungry, and satisfy the afflicted soul, then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and thy darkness be as the noonday."

88.

The Noble Nature.

IT is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth make Man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:. A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that night—
It was the plant and flower of Light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures life may perfect be.

B. JONSON.

89.

Virtue.

SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky!
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye!
Thy root is ever in its grave-

And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie!
My music shows ye have your closes,

And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like seasoned timber, never gives;

But, though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

90.

The Parrot.

THE deep affections of the breast,

G. HERBERT.

That Heaven to living things imparts, Are not exclusively possessed

By human hearts.

A Parrot, from the Spanish main,

Full young, and early caged, came o'er
With bright wings, to the bleak domain
Of Mulla's shore.

To spicy groves, where he had won
His plumage of resplendent hue,
His native fruits, and skies, and sun,
He bade adieu.

For these he changed the smoke of turf,
A heathery land and misty sky,
And turned on rocks and raging surf
His golden eye.

But, petted, in our climate cold

He lived and chattered many a day ;
Until, with age, from green and gold
His wings grew grey.

At last, when blind and seeming dumb,
He scolded, laughed, and spoke no more,

A Spanish stranger chanced to come

To Mulla's shore ;

He hailed the bird in Spanish speech;
The bird in Spanish speech replied,
Flapped round his cage with joyous screech,
Dropt down, and died.

T. CAMPBELL.

91.

Coronach.

HE is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.

The fount, reappearing,

From the raindrops shall borrow,

But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The island of Mull, off the west coast of Scotland.