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And I rushed to my throne with thunder blast,

And laughed in my iron strength. Oh, then ye saw a wondrous change On the earth and ocean wide, Where now my fiery armies range, Nor wait for wind or tide.

Hurrah! hurrah! the waters o'er
The mountains steep decline;
Time-space-have yielded to my power-
The world! the world is mine!
The rivers the sun hath earliest blest,
Or those where his beams decline,
The giant streams of the queenly west,
Or the orient floods divine.

The ocean pales where'er I sweep,
To hear my strength rejoice;
And the monsters of the briny deep
Cower, trembling, at my voice.

I carry the wealth and the lord of earth,

The thoughts of the god-like mind;

The wind lags after my flying forth,
The lightning is left behind.

In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine

My tireless arm doth play,

Where the rocks never saw the sun decline,
Or the dawn of the glorious day.

I bring earth's glittering jewels up
From the hidden cave below,
And I make the fountain's granite cup
With a crystal gush o'erflow.

I blow the bellows, I forge the steel,
In all the shops of trade;

I hammer the ore, and turn the wheel,

Where my arms of strength are made; I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint; I carry, I spin, I weave;

And all my doings I put into print
On every Saturday eve.

I've no muscle to weary, no breast to decay,
No bones to be "laid on the shelf,"
And soon I intend you "may go and play,"
While I manage the world by myself.
But harness me down with your iron bands,
Be sure of your curb and rein,

For I scorn the strength of your puny hands
As the tempest scorns a chain.


Jugurtha became king of Numidia, in Africa, by the murder of his two cousins, who were nearer to the throne than he. The Romans, in consequence, de

clared war against him. Having been overpowered by the Consul Marius, he was taken prisoner in 106 B.C., and two years afterwards died of starvation in a dungeon in Rome.

The Rev. Charles Wolfe was born in Dublin, in 1791, and after a brief but pro-
mising career as a poet and as a clergyman, died of consumption in 1823.
His poems, essays, and sermons, have been collected under the title of "Wolfe's

WELL-is the rack prepared-the pincers heated?
Where is the scourge? How !—not employed in Rome?
We have them in Numidia. Not in Rome?
I'm sorry for it; I could enjoy it now;

I might have felt them yesterday; but now,—
Now I have seen my funeral procession:

The chariot-wheels of Marius have rolled o'er me:
His horses' hoofs have trampled me in triumph,-

I have attained that terrible consummation.
My soul could stand aloof, and from on high
Look down upon the ruins of my body,
Smiling in apathy: I feel no longer;

I challenge Rome to give another pang.-
Gods! how he smiled, when he beheld me pause
Before his car, and scowl upon the mob;
The curse of Rome was burning on my lips,

And I had gnawed my chain, and hurled it at them,

But that I knew he would have smiled again.—
A king! and led before the gaudy Marius,
Before those shouting masters of the world,
As if I had been conquered; while each street,
Each peopled wall, and each insulting window,
Pealed forth their brawling triumphs o'er my head.
Oh! for a lion from thy woods, Numidia!-
Or, had I, in that moment of disgrace,
Enjoyed the freedom but of yonder slave,
I would have made my monument in Rome.
Yet am I not that fool, that Roman fool,
To think disgrace entombs the hero's soul,—
For ever damps his fires and dims his glories;
That no bright laurel can adorn the brow
That once has bowed; no victory's trumpet-sound
Can drown in joy the rattling of his chains:
No;-could one glimpse of victory and vengeance
Dart preciously across me, I could kiss
Thy footstep's dust again; then all in flame,
With Massinissa's energies unquenched,
Start from beneath thy chariot-wheels, and grasp
The gory laurel reeking in my view,

And force a passage through disgrace to glory—
Victory! Vengeance! Glory!-Oh, these chains!
My soul's in fetters, too; for, from this moment,
Through all eternity I see but-death;
To me there's nothing future now, but death:
Then come and let me gloom upon the past.-

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I'll sleep no more, until I sleep for ever:
When I slept last, I heard Adherbal scream.
I'll sleep no more! I'll think until I die:
My eyes shall pore upon my miseries,

Until my miseries shall be no more.

Yet wherefore did he scream? Why, I have heard
His living scream,—it was not half so frightful.

Whence comes the difference? When the man was living,

Why, I did gaze upon his couch of torments

With placid vengeance, and each anguished cry

Gave me stern satisfaction. Now he's dead,
And his lips move not; yet his voice's image
Flashed such a dreadful darkness o'er my soul,
I would not mount Numidia's throne again,
Did every night bring such a scream as that.
Oh, yes, 'twas I that caused that living one,
And therefore did its echo seem so frightful.
If 'twere to do again, I would not kill thee;
Wilt thou not be contented?-But thou say'st,
"My father was to thee a father also;

He watched thy infant years, he gave thee all
That youth could ask, and scarcely manhood came
Than came a kingdom also: yet didst thou-”
Oh, I am faint!-they have not brought me food-
How did I not perceive it until now?

Hold,-my Numidian cruse is still about me-
No drop within-Oh, faithful friend! companion
Of many a weary march and thirsty day,
'Tis the first time that thou hast failed my lips.-
Gods! I'm in tears!-I did not think of weeping.
Oh, Marius, wilt thou ever feel like this?-
Ha! I behold the ruins of a city;

And on a craggy fragment sits a form
That seems in ruins also: how unmoved,

How stern he looks! Amazement! it is Marius!
Ha! Marius, think'st thou now upon Jugurtha?
He turns! he's caught my eye! I see no more!


The following extract from the "Excursion" details with remarkable "philosophical truth and poetical beauty" the mode in which abstract ideas came to be regarded by the imaginative Greek as tangible forms, and the fancies of the mind turned into the shapes of gods and goddesses.

William Wordsworth was a native of Cockermouth, in Cumberland. He was an intimate friend of Coleridge and Southey, and on the death of the latter in 1843 he succeeded to the Laureateship. Born 1770; died 1850.

THE lively Grecian, in a land of hills,

Rivers and fertile plains, and sounding shores,
Under a cope of sky more variable,

Could find commodious place for every god,

Promptly received, as prodigally brought,
From the surrounding countries, at the choice
Of all adventurers. With unrivalled skill,
As nicest observation furnished hints
For studious fancy, his quick hand bestowed
On fluent operations a fixed shape;
Metal or stone, idolatrously served.

And yet triumphant o'er this pompous show
Of art, this palpable array of sense,
On every side encountered; in despite
Of the gross fictions chanted in the streets
By wandering rhapsodists; and in contempt
Of doubt and bold denial hourly urged
Amid the wrangling schools-a SPIRIT hung,
Beautiful region, o'er thy towns and farms,
Statues and temples, and memorial tombs.

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In that fair clime, the lonely herdsman, stretched
On the soft grass through half a summer's day,
With music lulled his indolent repose;

And in some fit of weariness, if he,

When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear
A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds
Which his poor skill could make, his fancy fetched
Even from the blazing chariot of the sun
A beardless youth, who touched a golden lute
And filled the illumined groves with ravishment.
The nightly hunter, lifting a bright eye

Up towards the crescent moon, with grateful heart
Called on the lovely wanderer, who bestowed
That timely light, to share his joyous sport.
And hence a beaming goddess with her nymphs,
Across the lawn and through the darksome grove
(Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes

By echo multiplied from rock or cave)

Swept in the storm of chase; as moon and stars
Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven,

When winds are blowing strong. The traveller slaked
His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and thanked
The Naiad. Sunbeams, upon distant hills

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