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THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB'S ARMY.

By Lord BYRON.

THE Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.

For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he past;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved-and for ever grew still.

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride,
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent-the banners alone-
The lances unlifted-the trumpets unblown.

And the widows of Asshur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

THE MILLENNIUM.

By COWPER, a passage in The Task, and which has been truly described as an "exquisite grouping of prophetic imagery."

O SCENES surpassing fable, and yet true-
Scenes of accomplish'd bliss! which who can see,
Though but in distant prospect, and not feel
His soul refresh'd with foretaste of the joy?

Rivers of gladness water all the earth,

And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach
Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field
Laughs with abundance: and the land, once lean,
Or fertile only in its own disgrace,
Exults to see its thistly curse repeal'd.
The various seasons woven into one,
And that one season an eternal spring,
The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence,
For there is none to covet, all are full.
The lion, and the libbard, and the bear,
Graze with the fearless flocks; all bask at noon
Together, or all gambol in the shade

Of the same grove, and drink one common stream:
Antipathies are none.
No foe to man

Lurks in the serpent now: the mother sees,
And smiles to see, her infant's playful hand
Stretch'd forth to dally with the crested worm,
To stroke his azure neck, or to receive
The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue.
All creatures worship man, and all mankind
One Lord, one Father. Error has no place;
That creeping pestilence is driven away;
The breath of heaven has chased it. In the heart
No passion touches a discordant string;
But all is harmony and love. Disease
Is not the pure and uncontaminate blood
Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age.
One song employs all nations; and all cry,
"Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us!"
The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks
Shout to each other, and the mountain-tops
From distant mountains catch the flying joy;
Till, nation after nation taught the strain,
Earth rolls the rapturous Hosanna round.
Behold the measure of the promise fill'd;
See Salem built, the labour of a God!
Bright as a sun the sacred city shines;
All kingdoms and all princes of the earth
Flock to that light; the glory of all lands
Flows into her; unbounded is her joy,
And endless her increase. Thy rams are there,
Nebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there:

The looms of Ormus and the mines of Ind,
And Saba's spicy groves, pay tribute there.
Praise is in all her gates; upon her walls
And in her streets, and in her spacious courts,
Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there
Kneels with the native of the farthest west;
And Ethiopia spreads abroad the hand,
And worships. Her report has travell'd forth
Into all lands; from every clime they come
To see thy beauty, and to share thy joy,
O Sion! an assembly such as earth
Saw never, such as Heaven stoops down to see.

MAN, THE CARE OF ANGELS.

An extract from SPENSER'S Fairy Queen.

AND is there care in heaven? And is there love
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base,
That may compassion of their evils move?

There is: else much more wretched were the case
Of men than beasts: but O the exceeding grace
Of highest God! that loves his creatures so,
And all his workes with mercy doth embrace,
That blessed angels he sends to and fro,

To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe!

How oft do they their silver bowers leave,
To come to succour us that succour want!
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave
The flitting skyes, like flying pursuivant,
Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant!
They for us fight, they watch and dewly ward,
And their bright squadrons round about us plant;
And all for love, and nothing for reward;

O why should hevenly God to men have such regard!

THE HOLY SCRIPTURES.

A quaint poem by GEORGE HERBERT, published in 1633.

PART I.

O Book! infinite sweetness! let my heart
Suck every letter, and a honey gain,
Precious for any grief in any part;
To clear the breast, to mollify all pain.

Thou art all health, health thriving, till it make
A full eternity: thou art a mass

Of strange delights, where we may wish and take.
Ladies, look here; this is the thankful glass

That mends the looker's eyes: this is the well

That washes what it shows. Who can endear
Thy praise too much? thou art heaven's Lieger here,
Working against the states of death and hell.

Thou art joy's handsel: heaven lies flat in thee,
Subject to every mounter's bended knee.

PART II.

OH that I knew how all thy lights combine,
And the configurations of their glory!
Seeing not only how each verse doth shine,
But all the constellations of the story.

This verse marks that, and both do make a motion
Unto a third, that ten leaves off doth lie:
Then as dispersed herbs do watch a potion,
These three make up some Christian destiny.

Such are thy secrets, which my life makes good,
And comments on thee: for in every thing
Thy words do find me out, and parallels bring,
And in another make me understood.

Stars are poor books, and oftentimes do miss:
This books of stars lights to eternal bliss.

DEATH.

By SHELLEY.

DEATH is here, and death is there,
Death is busy everywhere,

All around, within, beneath,
Above is death-and we are death.

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First our pleasures die—and then
Our hopes, and then our fears-and when
These are dead, the debt is due,
Dust claims dust-and we die too.

All things that we love and cherish,
Like ourselves, must fade and perish;
Such is our rude mortal lot-
Love itself would, did they not.

THE POPE AND THE BEGGAR.

A remarkable poem by Sir E. BULWER LYTTON.

"The Desires the chains-the Deeds the wings."

I SAW a Soul beside the clay it wore,

When reign'd that clay the Hierarch-Sire of Rome; A hundred priests stood ranged the bier before, Within Saint Peter's dome;

And all was incense, solemn dirge, and prayer, And still the Soul stood sullen by the clay: "O Soul, why to thy heavenlier native air

Dost thou not soar away?"

And the Soul answer'd, with a ghastly frown-
"In what life loved, death finds its weal or woe;
Slave to the clay's DESIRES, they drag me down
To the clay's rot below!"

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