The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and

Fire,

Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride;
She saw her glories star by star expire,
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride,
Where the car climb'd the Capitol; far and wide
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site :—
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void,
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light,

And say, "here was, or is," where all is doubly night?

BYRON.

THE SEA NETTLE.

Now is it pleasant in the summer-eve,
When a broad shore retiring waters leave,
Awhile to wait upon the firm fair sand,
When all is calm at sea, all still at land;
And there the ocean's produce to explore,
As floating by, or rolling on the shore;
Those living jellies which the flesh inflame,1
Fierce as a nettle, and from that its name;
Some in huge masses, some that you may bring
In the small compass of a lady's ring;
Figur'd by hand divine—there's not a gem
Wrought by man's art to be compar'd to them;
Soft, brilliant, tender, through the wave they glow;
And make the moonbeam brighter where they flow.
Involved in sea-wrack, here you find a race,
Which science, doubting, knows not where to place;

The various species of Medusa, popularly named seanettles, from their causing when touched a disagreeable stinging sensation.

On shell or stone is dropp'd the embryo-seed,
And quickly vegetates a vital breed.

While thus with pleasing wonder you inspect Treasures the vulgar in their scorn reject, See, as they float along, th' entangled weeds Slowly approach, upborne on bladdery beads 1; Wait till they land, and you shall then behold The fiery sparks those tangled fronds infold, Myriads of living points; th' unaided eye Can but the fire, and not the form descry. And now your view upon the ocean turn, And there the splendour of the waves discern; Cast but a stone, or strike them with the oar, And you shall flames within the deep explore ; Or scoop the stream phosphoric as you stand, And the cold flames shall flash along your hand; When, lost in wonder, you shall walk, and gaze On weeds that sparkle, and on waves that blaze.2

CRABBE.

1 Fucus vesiculosus and other species (sea wrack, kelp), the stems of which are furnished with a number of air-bladders, which make a cracking noise when trodden upon, and which cause the weed to float upon the surface of the water.

2 Few points in natural history have given rise to greater discussion than the luminous appearance of the ocean; but all that has been precisely determined upon the subject is, that many mollusca, when alive, have the power to emit a phosphoric light; the light in the sea is, in some degree, imparted by these living animals, and also by the infinite quantity of decomposed dead mollusca, which are in some places so abundant as to render the ocean like a gelatinous fluid, nauseous to the taste, but nourishing to fishes. The sea becomes more luminous at the approach of storms, but is little affected by any variation of the temperature.

DEATH.

DEATH is the dark and universal doom;

The past hath brav'd it, and the future shall;
Though little deem we, as we laugh the hours
Along, like echoes dandled by the wind,
How swift our path is verging to the tomb,
Terrific power! how often in the hush

Of midnight, when the thoughtless learn to think,
The gay grow solemn, and the guilty wise,
Visions of thee come floating o'er the mind,
Like exhalations from a grave! How oft
We feel an awfulness o'ershade the soul,
As if 'twere soaring to the throne of God,
Till, in one thought of heaven, we bury all
This mighty world of life and being!

A death-cloud rises with the star of life,
And ere the heart can open on the world
In happiness and joy, a voice from death
Is heard, as Nature whispers to the soul
We live to die, and die to live! there is
A spirit home in unimagin'd worlds :-
Yes, swift and awful rolls the mighty tide
Of human being to the final goal!

First, Infancy, without a thought, -a dream!
Next, Childhood, full of beauty, health, and joy,-
A spring for ever breathing in the soul;

Then, Manhood, most majestic! piercing through
The heavens with haughty eye, and printing earth
With kingly steps, -ambition, love, and care,
Some smiles, and many tears,—the mind within
For ever wrestling like a wave of fire, -
And such is manhood!-then comes feeble Age,
That droops, and drops into the silent grave;
Here ends the scene of life, a moment wept,
The next forgotten;―let the curtain fall;
Oblivion has our tale,

-we lived, and died!

R. MONTGOMERY.

THE CHARITIES OF THE POOR.

"BEG FROM A BEGGAR."-Irish Proverb.

THERE is a thought so purely blest,
That to its use I oft repair,
When evil breaks my spirit's rest,
And pleasure is but varied care;
A thought to gild the stormiest skies,
To deck with flowers the bleakest moor, -
A thought whose home is paradise, —
The charities of poor to poor.

It were not for the rich to blame,
If they, whom fortune seems to scorn,
Should vent their ill-content and shame
On others less or more forlorn :
But, that the veriest needs of life
Should be dispens'd with freer hand,
Than all their stores and treasures rife
Is not for them to understand.

To give the stranger's children bread,
Of your precarious board the spoil,—
To watch your helpless neighbour's bed,
And sleepless meet the morrow's toil ;-
The gifts, not proffer'd once alone,
The daily sacrifice of years,-
And when all else to give is gone,
The precious gifts of love and tears!

Therefore, lament not, honest soul!

*

That Providence holds back from thee The means thou might'st so well control Those luxuries of charity.1

"The luxury of doing good." — Goldsmith

Manhood is nobler, as thou art;

And, should some chance thy coffers fill,
How art thou sure to keep thine heart,
To hold unchang'd thy loving will?

Wealth, like all other power, is blind,
And bears a poison in its core,
To taint the best, if feeble, mind,
And madden that debas'd before.
It is the battle, not the prize,

That fills the hero's breast with joy;
And industry the bliss supplies,

Which mere possession might destroy.

MILNES.

THE CID'S FUNERAL PROCESSION.

THE Moor had beleagur'd Valencia's towers,
And lances gleam'd up through her citron bowers,
And the tents of the desert had girt her plain,
And camels were trampling the vines of Spain,
For the Cid was gone to rest.

The adventures of this Castilian hero are involved in nearly as much fable as those of our king Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. They are contained in the Chronicle supposed to have been written in the 13th century, and in an immense number of romances and ballads, besides an ancient epic poem, in which the wonderful achievements of Bernardo del Carpio, Ferran Gonzalez, and the other twelve peers of Spain, are interwoven with those of the Cid.

The Cid (from the Arabic El Seid, "the Lord,") so called by the Moors, whom he subjugated by his victories, was born at Burgos, about 1040. His real name was Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar. He attached himself to Sancho II., king of Castile, whose life he once saved in battle. At the siege of Zamora, Sancho was treacherously murdered, and his brother Alphonso, his successor, was suspected of the