And an echo-like the desert's call- Like thoughts to be dreamed of, but never told, She has stepped on the burning sand! And the Ethiop's heart throbs loud and high, And the Libyan kneels as he meets her eye, The gales may not be heard, Yet the silken streamers quiver, And the vessel shoots-like a bright-plumed bird Away, down the golden river! Away by the lofty mount! And away by the lonely shore! And away by the gushing of many a fount, And hope and beauty blasted! That scenes so fair and hearts so gay A dream of other days!— And grief grew up, to dim the blaze The whirlwind's burning wind hath cast And sorrow-like the simoom-past Too like her fervid clime, that bred Its self-consuming fires, Her breast-like Indian widows-fed Not such the song her minstrels sing- SHE SLEEPS THAT STILL AND PLACID SLEEP. SHE sleeps that still and placid sleep Shall I behold the wild-flower wave! They laid her where the sun and moon Grow dirge-like, as it stole along! IV. The prows are turned to Egypt, and the flying sails unfurled, Her oars were of the silver, then, and to her And the western breeze hath borne from him purple sails, And in amid her raven hair, came only per fumed gales; And Cupids trimmed the silken ropes along the cedar spars, And she lay, like a goddess, on her pillow of the the fortunes of the world! EPITAPH. FAREWELL!-since nevermore for thee The sun comes up our earthly skies, Less bright henceforth shall sunshine be To some fond heart and saddened eyes. There are, who for thy last long sleep, Sad thrift of love!-the loving breast, Whereon thine aching head was thrown, Gave up the weary head to rest, But kept the aching for its own, Till pain shall find the same low bed NAY, DRY THAT TEAR! NAY, dry that tear!-where'er I stray, The shadows, dear! from thine. My soul bas weathered storms, above The strength of feeble minds to bear; But may not see the cheek I love Dimmed by affliction's tear. 'Tis bliss enough for me to rest Beneath the ray of that blue eyeOr, pillowed on thy gentle breast, To echo back its sigh! But oh! that eye must not be wet Thy sigh's soft music borrow! Oh, may thy looks be ever bright, And may thy sighs, if sighs e'er start, THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY was born at Rothley Temple, Leicestershire, October 25, 1800. His father was a West India merchant, of Scotch descent. He entered Trinity College, Cambridge, at the age of eighteen, and was soon known as one of the most brilliant students there. Even at that time his reading had been so wide, and his memory was so tenacious, that he was dubbed "omniscient Macaulay." He took the chancellor's medal twice, in 1819 and 1820, for poems entitled "Pompeii" and "Evening." He graduated in 1822, and during the next four years resided alternately at London and Cambridge. At this time he wrote his poems "Moncontour" and "Ivry," and contributed essays to Knight's Quarterly Magazine. For twenty years he was a contributor to the Edinburgh Review, in which many of his well-known essays appeared. Macaulay was admitted to the bar at Lincoln's Inn in 1826, but he never practised. He was appointed Commissioner of Bankrupts soon after, and in 1830 entered Parliament for a pocket borough. Two years later he was elected for Leeds. In the House of Commons he made numerous carefully-prepared speeches, advocating the most liberal measures and adding considerable strength to the Whig party. He was appointed Secretary of the Board of Control in | 1833, but in 1834 resigned that office and his seat in Parliament, being appointed a member of the Supreme Council of India. There he constructed a new code, which was designed to give equal justice to the natives and the English residents; but it met with determined opposition from the latter, and was not allowed to succeed. He returned to England in 1838, and in 1839 was elected to Parliament for Edinburgh and was appointed Secretary of War in the Melbourne ministry. After that ministry was dissolved in 1841, he sided with the opposition. When the Whigs returned to power in 1846, he was made Paymaster-General; but he failed to be reëlected for Edinburgh in 1847. In 1857 he was raised to the peerage with the title of Baron Macaulay of Rothley. The first collection of Macaulay's essays was published in Boston, Mass., in 1840. In 1842 he published "Lays of Ancient Rome," which met with immediate and universal appreciation. They are all included in the selections here given. Macaulay introduced each of them with a learned preface which we have not thought it necessary to reprint. "The History of England" was published in 1848-'55. Macaulay died suddenly at Holly Lodge, Campden Hill, Kensington, December 28, 1859, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME. HORATIUS. A LAY MADE ABOUT THE YEAR OF THE CITY CCCLX. LARS PORSENA of Clusium By the Nine Gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more. By the Nine Gods he swore it, And named a trysting-day, East and west and south and north Who lingers in his home, Is on the march for Rome. The horsemen and the footmen From many a stately market-place, From many a lonely hamlet, Which, hid by beech and pine, Like an eagle's nest hangs on the crest Of purple Apennine; From lordly Volaterræ, Where scowls the far-famed hold From the proud mart of Pisa, Queen of the western waves, Where ride Massilia's triremes Heavy with fair-haired slaves; From where sweet Clanis wanders Through corn and vines and flowers; From where Cortona lifts to heaven Her diadem of towers. Tall are the oaks whose acorns Fat are the stags that champ the boughs Beyond all streams Clitumnus Is to the herdsman dear; HORATIUS. Best of all pools the fowler loves But now no stroke of woodman Is heard by Auser's rill; No hunter tracks the stag's green path Grazes the milk-white steer; The harvests of Arretium This year old men shall reap; This year, the must shall foam Round the white feet of laughing girls Whose sires have marched to Rome. There be thirty chosen prophets, Both morn and evening stand: Have turned the verses o'er, Traced from the right on linen white By mighty seers of yore. And with one voice the Thirty Have their glad answer given: To Clusium's royal dome, And now hath every city Sent up her tale of men: The foot are fourscore thousand, The horse are thousands ten. Before the gates of Sutrium Is met the great array, A proud man was Lars Porsena Upon the trysting-day. For all the Etruscan armies Were ranged beneath his eye, And many a banished Roman, And many a stout ally; And with a mighty following To join the muster came The Tusculan Mamilius, Prince of the Latian name. But by the yellow Tiber Was tumult and affright: A mile around the city, The throng stopped up the ways: A fearful sight it was to see Through two long nights and days. For aged folk on crutches, And women great with child, And mothers sobbing over babes That clung to them and smiled, And sick men borne in litters High on the necks of slaves, And droves of mules and asses Laden with skins of wine, That creaked beneath their weight Now, from the rock Tarpeian, They sat all night and day, To eastward and to westward Have spread the Tuscan bands; Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote, In Crustumerium stands. Verbenna down to Ostia Hath wasted all the plain; Astur hath stormed Janiculum, And the stout guards are slain. I wis, in all the Senate, There was no heart so bold, In haste they girded up their gowns, They held a council standing Short time was there, ye well may guess, Out spoke the Consul roundly: "The bridge must straight go down; For, since Janiculum is lost, Naught else can save the town." Just then a scout came flying, All wild with haste and fear: "To arms! to arms! Sir Consul; Lars Porsena is here." On the low hills to westward And nearer fast and nearer Doth the red whirlwind come; And louder still and still more loud, From underneath that rolling cloud, Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, The trampling and the hum. And plainly and more plainly Now through the gloom appears, Far to left and far to right, In broken gleams of dark-blue light, The long array of helmets bright, The long array of spears. |