But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town, That the spears of the North have encircled the

crown.

There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes; There's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Mon

trose.

Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown,

With the barons of England that fight for the crown?

Now joy to the crest of the brave cavalier!

Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless his spear, Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown

In a pledge to fair England, her Church and her

crown.

SONNET TO MILTON.-(Wordsworth.)
Milton, thou shouldst be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh, raise us up, return to us again,

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart :
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea;
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on itself did lay.

THE DOG ARGUS.-(Odyssey, Book xvii.

290-327.)

From Maginn's Homeric Ballads.

Then, as they spake, upraised his head,
Pricked up his listening ear,

The dog whom erst Odysseus bred,
Old Argus, lying near.

He bred him, but his fostering skill
To himself had naught availed;
For Argus joined not the chase, until
The king had to Ilion sailed.

To hunt the wild goat, hart and hare,
Him once young huntsmen sped;
But now he lay an outcast there,
Absent his lord, to none a care,
Upon a dunghill bed;

Where store of dung, profusely flung
By mules and oxen, lay ;

Before the gates it was spread along
For the hinds to bear away,

As rich manure for the lands they tilled
Of their prince beyond the sea,-

There was Argus stretched, his flesh all filled With the dog-worrying flea.

But when by the hound his king was known,
Wagged was the fawning tail;

Backward his close-clapped ears were thrown,
And up to his master's side had he flown,
But his limbs he felt to fail.

Odysseus saw, and turned aside
To wipe away the tear;

From Eumæus he chose his grief to hide, And “Strange, passing strange, is the sight,” Of such a dog laid here! [he cried, "Noble his shape, but I cannot tell

If his worth with that shape may suit:
If a hound he be in the chase to excel
For fleetness of his foot;

"Or worthless as a household hound,
Whom men by their boards will place—
For no merit of strength or speed renowned,
But admired for shapely grace."

"He is the dog of one now dead

In a far land away;

But if you had seen," the swineherd said,
"This dog in his better day,

When Odysseus hence his warriors led
To join in the Trojan fray,

"His strength, his plight, his speed so light, You had with wonder viewed;

No beast that once had crossed his sight,
In the depths of the darkest wood,
'Scaped him, as, tracking sure and right,
He on its trace pursued.

"But now all o'er, in sorrows sore

He pines in piteous wise;

The king upon some distant shore
In death has closed his eyes;

And the careless women here no more
Tend Argus as he lies.

"For slaves who find their former lord

No longer holds the sway,

No fitting service will afford,
Or just obedience pay.

Far-seeing Jove's resistless power
Takes half away the soul

From him who of one servile hour

Has felt the dire control!"

This said, the swineherd passed the gate,
And entered the dwelling tall,
Where proud in state the suitors sate
Within the palace hall.

And darksome death checked Argus' breath
When he saw his master dear;
For he died his master's eye beneath,
All in that twentieth year.

THE CLOUD.-(Percy Bysshe Shelley.)
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noon-day dreams;

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning, my pilot, sits;

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder—
It struggles and howls by fits.

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills and the crags and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The spirit he loves remains;

And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains,

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning-star shines dead;

As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,

An eagle, alit, one moment may sit,

In the light of its golden wings.

And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beIts ardours of rest and love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,

With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn ;

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

[neath,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer;