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What are things to match with him?
Serpents old, and strong and grim,
Seas upon a desert shore,
Mountain-wildernesses hoar,

Night and storm, and earthquakes dire,
Thawless frost and raging fire-
All that's strong, and stern and dark,
All that doth not miss its mark,
All that makes man's nature tremble,
Doth the desert-king resemble!
When he sends his roaring forth
Silence falls upon the earth;
For the creatures great and small,
Know his terror-breathing call,
And, as if by death pursued,
Leaves to him a solitude.

Lion, thou art made to dwell
In hot lands intractable,
And thyself, the sun, the sand,
Are a tyrannous triple band:
Lion-king and desert-throne,
All the region is thy own!

HOWITT.

ADVERSITY.

When a great mind falls,

The noble nature of man's gen'rous heart
Doth bear him up against the shame of ruin,
With gentle censure, using but his faults
As modest means to introduce his praise;
For pity, like a dewy twilight, comes
To close th' oppressive splendour of his day,
And they who but admired him in his height,
His alter'd state lament, and love him fall'n.

BAILLIE

MOURNING.

Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems,
"Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye
Nor the dejected 'haviour of the visage,
Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief,
That can denote me truly: These, indeed, seem,
For they are actions that a man might play:
But I have that within, which passeth show;
These, but the trappings and the suits of woe.
SHAKSPEARE.

COURTIERS.

Those that go up hill, use to bow
Their bodies forward, and stoop low,
To poise themselves, and sometimes creep,
When th' way is difficult and steep;
So those at court, that do address

By low ignoble offices,

Can stoop at any thing that's base,
To wriggle into trust and grace,
Are like to rise to greatness sooner,

Than those that go by wealth and honour.

BUTLER

DANCING.

And then he danced,-all foreigners excel
The serious Angles in the eloquence
Of pantomime; he danced, I say, right well,
With emphasis, and also with good sense-
A thing in footing indispensable:
He danced without theatrical pretence,
Not like a ballet-master in the van

Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.

BYRON.

DON RODERICK IN BATTLE.

My horse!

My noble horse! he cried, with flattering hand
Patting his high-arch'd neck; the renegade,-
I thank him for 't,-bath kept thee daintily!
Orelio, thou art in thy beauty still,

Thy pride and strength! Orelio, my good horse,
Once more thou bearest to the field thy lord,
He who so oft hath fed and cherish'd thee,
He for whose sake, wherever thou wert seen,
Thou wert by all men honour'd. Once again
Thou hast thy proper master! Do thy part
As thou wert wont; and bear him gloriously,
My beautiful Orelio,-to the last-

The happiest of his fields!-Then he drew forth
The scimitar, and, waving it aloft,

Rode towards the troops; its unaccustom'd shape
Disliked him. Renegade in all things! cried
The Goth, and cast it from him; to the chiefs
Then said, If I have done ye service here,
Help me, I pray you, to a Spanish sword!
The trustiest blade, that e'er in Bilbilis
Was dipp'd, would not to-day be misbestow'd

On this right hand!-Go, some one, Gunderick cried,
And bring Count Julian's sword. Whoe'er thou art,
The worth which thou hast shown avenging him
Entitles thee to wear it. But thou goest

For battle unequipp'd;-haste there, and strip
Yon villain of his arinour!

Late he spake,,
So fast the Moors came on. It matters not,
Replied the Goth; there's many a mountaineer,
Who, in no better armour cased this day
Than his wonted leathern gipion, will be found
In the hottest battle, yet bring off untouch'd
The unguarded life he ventures.-Taking then
Count Julian's sword, he fitted round his wrist
The chain, and, eyeing the elaborate steel

With stern regard of joy, The African
Under unhappy stars was born, he cried,

Who tastes thy edge!-Make ready for the charge! They come-they come!-On, brethren, to the field. The word is Vengeance!

Vengeance was the word.

From man to man, and rank to rank, it past,
By every heart enforced, by every voice
Sent forth in loud defiance of the foe.
The enemy in shriller sounds return'd
Their Akbar and the Prophet's trusted name.
The horsemen lower'd their spears, the infantry
Deliberately, with slow and steady step,
Advanced; the bow-strings twang'd, and arrows hiss'd,
And javelins hurtled by. Anon the hosts
Met in the shock of baitle, horse and man
Conflicting; shield struck shield, and sword and mace
And curtle-axe on helm and buckler rung;
Armour was riven, and wounds were interchanged,.
And many a spirit from its mortal hold
Hurried to bliss or bale. Well did the chiefs
Of Julian's army in that hour support

Their old esteem; and well Count Pedro there
Enhanced his former praise; and by his side,
Rejoicing like a bridegroom in the strife,
Alphonso through the host of infidels

Bore on his bloody lance dismay and death.
But there was worst confusion and uproar,
There widest slaughter and dismay, where, proud
Of his recover'd lord, Orelio plunged

Through thickest ranks, trampling beneath his feet
The living and the dead. Where'er he turns
The Moors divide and fly. What man is this,
Appall'd they say, who to the front of war,
Bareheaded, offers thus his naked life?
Replete with power he is, and terrible,
Like some destroying angel! Sure his lips
Have drank of Kaf's dark fountain, and he comes
Strong in his immortality! Fly! fly!

They said; this is no human foe!-Nor less

Of wonder fill'd the Spaniards, when they saw
How flight and terror went before his way,
And slaughter in his path. Behold, cries one,
With what command and knightly ease he sits
The intrepid steed, and deals from side to side
His dreadful blows! Not Roderick in his power
Bestrode with such command and majesty
That noble war-horse. His loose robe this day
Is death's black banner, shaking from its folds
Dismay and ruin. Of no mortal mould

Is he, who, in that garb of peace, affronts

Whole hosts, and sees them scatter where he turns! Auspicious Heaven beholds us, and some saint Revisits earth!

SOUTHEY.

SUNSET IN THE MOUNTAINS.

THE shepherds homeward moved

Through the dull mist, I following-when a step,
A single step, that freed me from the skirts
Of the blind vapour, open'd to my view
Glory beyond all glory ever seen

By waking sense or by the dreaming soul!

Though I am conscious that no power of words Can body forth, no hues of speech can paint, That gorgeous spectacle-too bright and fair Even for remembrance; yet the attempt may give Collateral interest to this homely tale. The appearance, instantaneously disclosed, Was of a mighty city-boldly say A wilderness of building, sinking far And self-withdrawn into a wondrous depth, Far sinking into splendour-without end! Fabric it seem'd of diamond and of gold, With alabaster domes, and silver spires, And blazing terrace upon terrace high Uplifted; here, serene pavilions bright,

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