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It can not lay its hands on these, no more
Than it can pluck his brightness from the sun,
Or, with polluted finger, tarnish it.

Ges. But it can make thee writhe.
Tell. It may.
Ges. And groan.

Tell. It may; and I may cry,
Go on, though it should make me groan again.

Ges. Whence comest thou ?

Tell. From the mountains. Wouldst thou learn
What news from them?
Ges. Canst tell me any ?

Tell. Ay:
They watch no more the avalanche.
Ges. Why so ?

Tell. Because they look for thee. The hurricane
Comes unawares upon them; from its bed
The torrent breaks, and finds them in its track.
Ges. What do they then ?

Tell. Thank Heaven it is not thou ! Thou hast perverted nature in them. The earth Presents her fruits to them, and is not thanked; The harvest sun is constant, and they scarce Return his smile; their flocks and herds increase, And they look on as men who count a loss; They hear of thriving children born to them, And never shake the teller by the hand; While those they have, they see grow up and flourish, And think as little of caressing them, As they were things a deadly plague had smit. There's not a blessing Heaven vouchsafes them, but The thought of thee doth wither to a curse, As something they must lose, and richer were To lack.

Ges. That's right! I'd have them like their hills, That never smile, though wanton summer tempt Them e'er so much.

Tell. But they do sometimes smile.
Ges. Ay !when is that?
Tell. When they do talk of vengeance.
Ges. Vengeance ? Dare
They talk of that?

Tell. Ay, and expect it, too.
Ges From whence ?
Tell. From Heaven!
Ges. From Heaven?

Tell. And the true hands
Are lifted up to it, on every hill,
For justice on thee.


AN A' CRE ON is the name of a Greek poet that flourished about five hundred and fifty years before Christ. He was born at Teos, a city on the coast of Ionia, in Asia Minor. We know little about his personal history; but his character—that of a vain voluptuary-is sufficiently shown in his writings. Yet his poems discover a grace, delicacy, and general finish, that might well adorn a far better character in the writer, and far higher themes than those on which he has written. The following is a fair specimen of his style, 80 far as it is susceptible of an English dress.


ANACREON (translated by MOORK*).

'Twas noon of night, when round the pole
The sullen Bear is seen to roll;
And mortals, wearied with the day,
Are slumbering all their cares away;
An infant, at that dreary hour,
Came weeping to my silent bower,
And waked me with a piteous prayer,
To save him from the midnight air !

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II. “And who art thou,” I waking cry, “ That bid'st my blissful visions fly ?” “O gentle sire !" the infant said, “In pity take me to thy shed; Nor fear deceit; a lonely child I wander o'er the gloomy wild. Chill drops the rain, and not a ray Illumes the drear and misty way !”


I hear the baby's tale of woe;
I hear the bitter night winds blow;
And, sighing for his piteous fate,
i trimmed my lamp, and oped the gate.
'Twas Love! the little wandering sprits,
His pinions sparkled through the night!
I knew him by his bow and dart;
I knew him by my fluttering heart!


I take him in, and fondly raise
The dying embers' cheering blaze;
Press from his dank and clinging hair
The crystals of the freezing air,
And, in my hand and bosom, hold
His little fingers thrilling cold.
And now the embers' genial ray
Had warmed his anxious fears away.

“I pray thee,” said the wanton child, (My bosom trembled as he smiled,) "I pray thee let me try my bow; For through the rain I've wandered so, That much I fear the ceaseless shower Has injured its elastic power.”

The fatal bow the urchin drew;
Swift from the string the arrow flew;
Oh! swift it flew as glancing flame,
And to my very soul it came !
“ Fare thee well,” I heard him say,
As laughing wild he winged away;
“Fare thee well, for now I know
The rain has not relaxed my bow;
It still can send a maddening dart,
As thou shalt own with all thy heart !"




Oh ! show me where is He,
The high and holy One,
To whom thou bend’st the knee,
And pray'st,Thy will be done !"
I hear thy song of praise,
And, lo! no form is near :
Thine eyes I see thee raise,

But where doth God appear ?
Oh! teach me who is God, and where His glories shine,
That I may kneel and pray, and call thy Father mine


Gaze on that arch above;
The glittering vault admire.
Who taught those orbs to move ?
Who lit their ceaseless fire ?
Who guides the moon to run
In silence through the skies?
Who bids that dawning sun
In strength and beauty rise ?

There view immensity! behold ! my God is there;
The sun, the moon, the stars, His majesty declare


See where the mountains rise ;
Where thundering torrents foam;
Where, vailed in towering skies,
The eagle makes his home;
Where savage Nature dwells,
My God is present too;
Through all her wildest dells,

His footsteps I pursue;
He reared those giant cliffs, supplies that dashing stream,
Provides the daily food which stills the wild bird's scream.

Look on that world of waves,
Where finny nations glide;
Within whose deep, dark caves
The ocean monsters bide :
His power is sovereign there,
To raise, to quell the storm;
The depths his bounty share,

Where sport the scaly swarm :
Tempest and calms obey the same almighty voice
Which rules the earth and skies, and bids far worlds rejoice.

No human thoughts can soar
Beyond Her boundless might;
He swells the thunder's roar,
He spreads the wings of night.
Oh! praise His works divine !
Bow down thy soul in prayer;
Nor ask for other sign

That God is everywhere:
The viewless Spirit! He-immortal, holy, blest :
Oh! worship Him in faith, and find eternal rest!

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