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THE LION'S RIDE.

And hyenas foul, round graves that prowl, join in the horrid race;

'HE lion is the desert's king; through his domain By the footprints wet with gore and sweat, their mon

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Then bend your gaze across the waste-what see ye? Thus nightly, o'er his broad domain, the king of beasts The giraffe,

Majestic, stalks towards the lagoon, the turbid lymph

to quaff;

With outstretched neck and tongue adust, he kneels

him down to cool

His hot thirst with a welcome draught from the foul and brackish pool.

A rustling sound, a roar, a bound-the lion sits astride
Upon his giant courser's back. Did ever king so ride?
Had ever king a steed so rare, caparisons of state
To match the dappled skin whereon that rider sits
elate?

In the muscles of the neck his teeth are plunged with ravenous greed;

His tawny mane is tossing round the withers of the steed.

Up leaping with a hollow yell of anguish and surprise, Away, away, in wild dismay, the cameleopard flies.

His feet have wings; see how he springs across the moonlit plain!

As from their sockets they would burst, his glaring eyeballs strain;

In thick black streams of purling blood, full fast his life is fleeting;

The stillness of the desert hears his heart's tumultuous beating.

Like the cloud that, through the wilderness, the path of Israel traced-

Like an airy phantom, dull and wan, a spirit of the waste

From the sandy sea uprising, as the water-spout from

ocean,

A whirling cloud of dust keeps pace with the courser's fiery motion.

Croaking companion of their flight, the vulture whirs on high:

Below, the terror of the fold, the panther fierce and sly,

doth ride.

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FERDINAND FREILIGRAth.

LAMBS AT PLAY.

AY, ye that know, ye who have felt and seen Spring's morning smiles, and soul enlivening

green

Say, did you give that thrilling transport way, Did your eye brighten, when young lambs at play Leaped o'er your path with animated pride, Or gazed in merry clusters by your side? Ye who can smile-to wisdom no disgraceAt the arch meaning of a kitten's face; If spotless innocence and infant mirth Excites to praise, or gives reflection birth; In shades like these pursue your favorite joy, Midst nature's revels, sports that never cloy. A few begin a short but vigorous race, And indolence, abashed, soon flies the place : Thus challenged forth, see thither, one by one, From every side assembling playmates run; A thousand wily antics mark their stay, A starting crowd, impatient of delay; Like the fond dove from fearful prison freed, Each seems to say, "Come, let us try our speed;" Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong, The green turf trembling as they bound along Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb, Where every mole-hill is a bed of thyme, Then, panting, stop; yet scarcely can refrain— A bird, a leaf, will set them off again : Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow, Scattering the wild-brier roses into snow, Their little limbs increasing efforts try ; Like the thorn flower, the fair assemblage fly. Ah, fallen roses! sad emblem of their doom; Frail as thyself, they perish while they bloom! ROBERT BLOOMFIELD,

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THE BLOOD HORSE.

AMARRA is a dainty steed,
Strong, black, and of a noble breed,
Full of fire, and full of bone,
With all his line of fathers known;
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin,

But blown abroad by the pride within!
His mane is like a river flowing,
And his eyes like embers glowing

In the darkness of the night,

And his pace as swift as light.

Look-how round his straining throat
Grace and shifting beauty float;

Sinewy strength is in his reins,

And the red blood gallops through his veins :
Richer, redder, never ran

Through the boasting heart of man.

He can trace his lineage higher
Than the Bourbon dare aspire-
Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph,
Or O'Brien's blood itself!

He, who hath no peer, was born
Here, upon a red March morn.
But his famous fathers dead
Were Arabs all, and Arab-bred,
And the last of that great line
Trod like one of a race divine!

And yet he was but friend to one

Who fed him at the set of sun

By some lone fountain fringed with green;
With him, a roving Bedouin,

He lived (none else would he obey
Through all the hot Arabian day),
And died untamed upon the sands
Where Balkh amidst the desert stands.

BRYAN W. PROCTER (Barry Cornwall).

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12

MAY MORNING.

OW the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,

The flowery May, who from her green lap And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream throws

The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.

Hail, beauteous May! that doth inspire
Mirth and youth and warm desire;
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
JOHN MILTON.
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

'HE melancholy days are come, the saddest of
the year,

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.

Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the wither'd 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 shrub 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 sprung 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

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brief;

Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of ours

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. NOVEMBER.

'HE mellow year is hasting to its close The little birds have almost sung their last, Their small notes twitter in the dreary blastThat shrill-piped harbinger of early snows; The patient beauty of the scentless rose, Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed, Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past, And makes a little summer where it grows. In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day The dusky waters shudder as they shine; The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define; And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine. HARTLEY Coleridge.

WHAT THE WINDS BRING.

HICH is the wind that brings the cold?

The north-wind, Freddy, and all the snow;
And the sheep will scamper into the fold
When the north begins to blow.

Which is the wind that brings the heat?
The south-wind, Katy; and corn will grow,
And peaches redden for you to eat,

When the south begins to blow.

Which is the wind that brings the rain?

The east-wind, Arty; and farmers know
That cows come shivering up the lane,
When the east begins to blow.

Which is the wind that brings the flowers?
The west-wind, Bessy; and soft and low
The birdies sing in the summer hours
When the west begins to blow.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

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