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He bowed amongst them like a tree,
Swift to the breach his comrades fly ;
Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all;
An earthquake could not overthrow
Thus Switzerland again was free;
THIS only grant me, that my means may lie
Not from great deeds, but good alone;
Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends
Books should, not business, entertain the light,
My garden painted o'er
With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleasures yield, Horace might envy in his Sabine field.
Thus would I double my life's fading space;
These unbought sports, this happy state,
VOICE of the summer wind,
Clap thy shielded sides and carol,
Thou art a mailed warrior, in youth and strength
Among the many beautiful fables of the ancient Greeks was this one. The beauty of Tithonus, son of a king of Troy, gained for him the affection of one of the goddesses. He begged her, as a favor, to make him immortal, and his request was granted. But, as he had forgotten to ask to retain the vigor and beauty of youth, he soon became infirm and decrepid; and, as life became insupportable to him, he begged the goddess to remove him from the world. As he could not die, she changed him into a grasshopper.
"Sans peur et sans reproche,” *
And as light as air;
Thou hast no sorrow or tears,
And slumbers in the clover,
In thy heat of summer pride
In and out the emerald glooms;
* Without fear and without reproach; an epithet applied to Bay ard, a French knight distinguished for his courage and his integrity. He died in 1524.
A GRECIAN ANECDOTE. — Milnes.
How Sparta thirsted after orient gold,
The pride of man to conquer and confuse.
Therefore forget not what that nature was,
That once availed the base desire to foil, When sought the Ionian Aristagoras
To mingle Sparta in his distant broil.
How thick the perils of that far emprise,
To people as to prince, appeal was vain,
Vain the dark menace,vain the shadowy gibe,But the wise envoy would not bend again
His homeward steps till failed the wonted bribe.
A suppliant at the regal hearth he stood,
Nor ever thought that proffer to withhold Because about them, in her careless mood,
Played the king's child,—a girl some nine years old.
Ten-twenty forty talents rose the bait
Strange feeling glistened in those infant eyes, That gazed attentive on the grave debate,
And seemed to search its meaning in surprise.
Yet fifty now had well secured the prey,
Had not a little hand tight clasped his arm, And a quick spirit uttered, "Come away,
Father, that man is there to do you harm."
Not unaccepted such pure omen came;
That gentle voice the present God revealed, And back the Ionian chief returned in shame, Checked by the virtue of that simple shield.
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS, Bryant.
THE melancholy days have come, the saddest of the
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again,