CLEOPATRA.

THE barge she sat in, like a burnished throne,

Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold,

Purple the sails, and so perfumèd, that

The winds were love-sick with them: the oars were silver;

Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made

The water, which they beat, to follow faster,

As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,

It beggared all description: she did lie

In her pavilion, (cloth-of-gold, of tissue,)

O'er-picturing that Venus, where we

THE GLADIATOR.

I SEE before me the gladiator lie: He leans upon his hand; — his manly brow

Consents to death, but conquers agony,

And his drooped head sinks gradually low

And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow

From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,

Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now

The arena swims around him — he is gone,

Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.

He heard it, but he heeded not, his eyes

Were with his heart, and that was far away;

He recked not of the life he lost, nor prize,

But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,

There were his young barbarians
all at play,

There was their Dacian mother,
he, their sire,

Butchered to make a Roman holi-
day;

All this rushed with his blood; -
Shall he expire,

And unavenged?- Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!

BYRON.

I saw their thousand years of snow On high, their wide long lake below,

And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; I heard the torrents leap and gush O'er channelled rock and broken bush;

I saw the white-walled distant town, And whiter sails go skimming down; And then there was a little isle, Which in my very face did smile, The only one in view;

A small green isle, it seemed no more,

Scarce broader than my dungeon floor,

But in it there were three tall trees, And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, And by it there were waters flowing, And on it there were young flowers growing,

Of gentle breath and hue.
The fish swam by the castle-wall,
And they seemed joyous each and
all;

The eagle rode the rising blast;
Methought he never flew so fast
As then to me he seemed to fly, -
And then new tears came in my

Lightly and brightly breaks away

The morning from her mantle gray,

And the noon will look on a sultry day.

Hark to the trump, and the drum,

And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn,

And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne,

And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum,

And the clash, and the shout, "They come, they come!"

The horse-tails are plucked from the ground, and the sword From its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the word.

their post:

The vizier himself at the head of the host.

When the culverin's signal is fired, then On!

Leave not in Corinth a living oneA priest at her altars, a chief in her halls,

A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls.

God and the prophet - Alla Hu! Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! "There the breach lies for passage,

the ladder to scale; And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye fail? He who first downs with the red cross may crave

His heart's dearest wish; let him

ask it, and have!" Thus uttered Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier;

The reply was the brandish of sabre

and spear,

And the shout of fierce thousands

Alas, poor Richard, where rides he the while? York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men,

After a well-graced actor leaves the stage,

Are idly bent on him that enters next, Thinking his prattle to be tedious: Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes

Did scowl on Richard; no man cried, God save him!

No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home:

'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright, the high sun shines not so! The high sun sees not, on the earth,

such a fiery fearful show; The roof-ribs swarth, the candent

hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent

band, like men before the foe. As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster, slow

Sinks on the anvil;-all about the faces fiery grow.

"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out leap out;" bang, bang, the sledges go; Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low ;

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow,

The leathern mail rebounds the

hail, the rattling cinders strew The ground around; at every bound

the sweltering fountains flow, And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "Ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters', leap out, and lay on load! Let's forge a goodly anchor; — a bower thick and broad; For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode,

And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road,·

The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean poured From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board; The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains!

But courage still, brave mariners! the bower yet remains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky high; Then moves his head, as though he said,"Fear nothing-here am I."

Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time: Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime. But while you sling your sledges, sing, and let the burthen be, The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we! Strike in, strike in

the sparks begin to dull their rustling red; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped. Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the yeo-heave-o', and the heaveaway, and the sighing seaman's cheer; When, weighing slow, at eve they go -far, far from love and home; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.