FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 1793-1835. (Manual, p. 432.)

321. THE TREASURES OF the Deep.

What hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells,
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious Main? —
Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colored shells,
Bright things which gleam unrecked of, and in vain. -
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy Sea!

We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, the Depths have more! What wealth untold
Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies!
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,
Won from ten thousand royal Argosies.—

Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful Main!
Earth claims not these again!

Yet more, the Depths have more! Thy waves have rolled
Above the cities of a world gone by!

Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,
Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry!

Dash o'er them, Ocean! in thy scornful play

Man yields them to decay!

Yet more! the Billows and the Depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar,
The battle-thunders will not break their rest;
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave·
Give back the true and brave!

Give back the lost and lovely! those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long,
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown, -
But all is not thine own!

To thee the love of woman hath gone down,
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,

O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery crown:-
Yet must thou hear a voice - Restore the Dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee -
Restore the Dead, thou Sea!

THOMAS HOOD. 1798-1845. (Manual, p. 434.)

322. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

One more unfortunate,

Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care,
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair.

Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly

Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently, and humanly;
Not of the stains of her;
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny

Rash and undutiful;

Past all dishonor,

Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,

One of Eve's family,
Wipe those poor lips of hers,
Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses,

Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses,
Whilst wonderment guesses,

Where was her home?

Who was her father?
Who was her mother?

Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care,
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair.

Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,

Decently, kindly

Smooth and compose them;

And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring,
Last look of despairing,
Fixed on futurity.

Perishing gloomily,

Spurned by contumely,
Bold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,

Into her rest;

Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!

Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,

And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour.

323. THE Death-Bed.

We watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life
Kept surging to and fro.

It is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying,
It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying;
Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as silence languish,
Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish.
O poets! from a maniac's tongue, was poured the deathless singing;
O Christians! at your cross of hope, a hopeless hand was clinging;
O men! this man in brotherhood your weary paths beguiling,
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were smiling.
And now what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story,
How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory;

And how, when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights departed,

He wore no less a loving face, because so broken-hearted.
He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation,

And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration;
Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken;

Named softly as the household name of one whom God hath taken!

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 1800-1859.

325. THE Battle of IvRY.'

[Henry the Fourth, on his accession to the French crown, was opposed by a large part of his subjects, under the Duke of Mayenne, with the assistance of Spain and Savoy. In March, 1590, he gained a decisive victory over that party at Ivry. Before the battle, he addressed his troops, “My children, if you lose sight of your colors, rally to my white plume-you will always find it in the path to honor and glory." His conduct was answerable to his promise. Nothing could resist his impetuous valor, and the Leaguers underwent a total and bloody defeat. In the midst of the rout, Henry followed, crying, "Save the French!" and his clemency added a number of the enemies to his own army.]

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!
And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!

I Pronounced E-vree. Ivry-la-Bataille is in the Department of Eure, seventeen miles South-east of
Evreux.