Sceptical enough to disbelieve in immortality, she was prudent enough to provide, as she imagined, for any contingency; hence she had her penances to purchase heaven, and her magic to propitiate hell. Queenly in her bearing, she graced the masque or revel, smiling in cosmetics and perfumes but Vicenza daggers glittered in her boudoir, and she culled for those who crossed her schemes flowers of the most exquisite fragrance, but their odour was death. Such was Catharine de Medicis, the sceptred sorceress of Italia's land, for whom there beats no pulse of tenderness, around whose name no clinging memories throng, on whom we gaze with a sort of constrained and awful admiration, as upon an embodiment of power,—but power cold, crafty, passionless, cruel-the power of the serpent, which cannot fail to leave impressions on the mind, but impressions of basilisk eye, and iron fang, and deadly gripe, and poisonous trail.

Rev. W. Morley Punshon.

Rebecca's Hymn.

WHEN Israel, of the Lord beloved, out from the land of bondage came, her fathers' God before her moved, an awful guide, in smoke and flame. By day, along the astonished lands, the cloudy pillar glided slow; by night, Arabia's crimsoned sands returned the fiery column's glow. There rose the choral hymn of praise, and trump and timbrel answered keen; and Zion's daughters poured their lays, with priests' and warriors' voice between. No portents now our foes amaze, forsaken Israel wanders lone; our fathers would not know THY ways, and THOU hast left them to their own. But, present still, though now unseen, when brightly shines the prosperous day, be thoughts of THEE a cloudy screen, to temper the deceitful ray. And oh, when stoops on Judah's path, in shade and storm, the frequent night, be THOU, long-suffering, slow to wrath, a burning and a shining light! Our harps we left by Babel's streams, the tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn; no censer round our altar beams, and mute are timbrel, trump, and horn; but THOU hast said, "The blood of goat, the flesh of rams, I will not prize: a contrite heart, an umble thought, are mine accepted sacrifice." Scott.

207

PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS IN VERSE.

Apostrophe to Love.

O HAPPY' love'! where love' like this' is found;
O heart-felt raptures'! bliss' beyond compare'!
I've paced much this weary, mortal round',
And sage Experience bids me this` declare'—
If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare',
One cordial in this melancholy vale',

'Tis when a youthful', loving', modest' pair',

In other's' arms' breathe out the tender' tale', Beneath the milk-white' thorn', that scents' the evening gale'!

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart-
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,
Betray sweet Jenny's' unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling' smooth!
Are honour', virtue', conscience', all' exiled?
Is there no pity', no relenting ruth',

Points' to the parents' fondling' o'er their child';
Then paints' the ruin'd` maid', and their' distraction' wild?

Burns

The Soldier's Dream.

OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die-

When, reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dream'd it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track:
"Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,

And my

wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart

"Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn!"
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay:-

But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear-melted away!

Campbell

On True Dignity.

"HAIL, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast,
And woo the weary to profound repose!
Can Passion's wildest uproar lay to rest,
And whisper comfort to the man of woes?
Here Innocence may wander, safe from foes,
And Contemplation soar on seraph-wings.
O Solitude! the man who thee foregoes,
When lucre lures him, or ambition stings,
Shall never know the source whence real grandeur springs.

Vain man! is grandeur given to gay attire?
Then let the butterfly thy pride upbraid:-
To friends, attendants, armies, bought with hire?
It is thy weakness that requires their aid:-
To palaces, with gold and gems inlay'd?
They fear the thief, and tremble in the storm:-
To hosts, through carnage who to conquest wade?
Behold the victor vanquish'd by the worm!
Behold what deeds of wo the locust can perform!

"True dignity is his, whose tranquil mind
Virtue has raised above the things below;
Who, every hope and fear to Heaven resign'd,

Shrinks not, though Fortune aim her deadliest blow!"–
This strain, from 'midst the rocks, was heard to flow
In solemn sounds. Now beam'd the evening star;
And from embattled clouds, emerging slow,
Cynthia came riding on her silver car;

And hoary mountain-cliffs shone faintly from afar.

Thalaba and the Sledge.

AND, lo! beneath yon lonely pine the sledge!
There stand the harness'd dogs;

Their wide eyes watching for the youth,

Their ears erect, and turned towards his way.
They were lean as lean might be,

Their furrow'd ribs rose prominent;

And they were black, from head to foot,
Save a white line on every breast
Curved like the crescent moon.
Thalaba takes his seat in the sledge;
His arms are folded on his breast;
The bird is on his knees.

There is fear in the eyes of the dogs;
There is fear in their pitiful moan;
And now they have turn'd their heads,
And seeing him seated—away!

The youth, with the start of their speed,
Falls back to the bar of the sledge;

His hair flows straight, in the stream of the wind,
Like the weeds in the running brook.

They wind with speed their upward way,

An icy path, through rocks of ice,

His eye is at the summit now;

And, thus far, all is dangerless. And, now, upon the height, The black dogs pause and paut. They turn their eyes to Thalaba, As if to plead for pity,

They moan and whine with fear.

Beattie,

Once more away!—and, now,

The long descent is seen!

A long, long, narrow path,

Ice-rocks, aright, and hills of snow!
Aloft, the precipice;

Be firm!-Be firm, O Thalaba,
One motion, now-one bend,
And, on the crags below

Thy shatter'd flesh will harden in the frost!
Why howl the dogs, so mournfully,
And wherefore does the blood flow fast,
All purple, o'er their sable skin?

His arms are folded on his breast,

Nor scourge nor goad hath he!
No hand appears to strike!
No sounding lash is heard!

But piteously they moan and whine,

And track their way with blood.

Behold, on yonder height,

A giant pend, aloft,

Waits to thrust down the tottering avalanche!
If Thalaba looks back, he dies!

The motion of fear is death!
On!-On!-with swift and steady pace,
Adown that dreadful way!
The youth is firm-the dogs are fleet,
The sledge goes rapidly!

The thunder of the avalance

Re-echoes, far behind!

On!-On!-with swift and steady pace,

Adown that dreadful

way,

The dogs are fleet-the way is steep,

The sledge goes rapidly!

They reach the plain below!

A wide, blank plain all desolate !
Nor tree, nor bush, nor herb,
On go the dogs, with rapid course,
The sledge slides, after, rapidly.
And, now, the sun went down,
They stopp'd and looked at T'halaba.
The youth perform'd his prayer!

They knelt beside him, while he pray'd;