He spoke no warrior-word, he bade no trumpet blow; But the signal thunder roared, and they rushed upon the foe.

The fiery element showed, with one mighty gleam,
Rampart and flag and tent, like the spectres of a dream;
All up the mountain side, all down the woody vale,
All by the rolling tide, waved the Persian banners pale.

And King Leonidas, among the slumbering band,

Sprang foremost from the pass, like the lightning's living brand;

Then double darkness fell, and the forest ceased to moan,
But there came a clash of steel, and a distant dying groan.

Anon, a trumpet blew, and a fiery sheet burst high,
That o'er the midnight threw a blood-red canopy :
A host glared on the hill, a host glared by the bay;
But the Greeks rushed onward still, like leopards in their
play.

The air was all a yell, and the earth was all a flame,

Where the Spartan's bloody steel on the silken turbans

came;

And still the Greeks rushed on, beneath the fiery fold,
Till, like a rising sun, shone Xerxes's tent of gold.

They found a royal feast, his midnight banquet, there!
And the treasures of the East lay beneath the Doric spear:
Then sat to the repast the bravest of the brave;

That feast must be their last—that spot must be their grave!

They pledged old Sparta's name in cups of Syrian wine,
And the warrior's deathless fame was sung in strains divine;
They took the rose-wreathed lyres from eunuch and from
slave,

And taught the languid wires the sounds that Freedom gave.

But now the morning star crownèd Eta's twilight brow, And the Persian born of war from the hill began to blow;

Up rose the glorious rank, to Greece one cup poured high, Then, hand in hand, they drank,-"To Immortality!"

Fear on King Xerxes fell, when, like spirits from the tomb, With shout and trumpet-knell, he saw the warriors come; But down swept all his power, with chariot and with charge,— Down poured the arrowy shower, till sank the Dorian targe.

They marched within the tent, with all their strength unstrung;

To Greece one look they sent, then on high their torches flung:

To heaven the blaze uprolled, like a mighty altar-fire;

And the Persians' gems and gold were the Grecians' funeral pyre.

Their king sat on his throne, his captains by his side,

While the flame rushed roaring on, and their pæan loud replied!

Thus fought the Greek of old! Thus will he fight again! Shall not the self-same mould bring forth the self-same men?

VIII.-THE PLAIN OF MARATHON.

(BYRON.)

The battle of Marathon, in which Miltiades, the Athenian, defeated the hosts of invading Persians, under Datis and Artaphernes, was fought in 490 B.C.

WHERE'ER we tread, 'tis haunted, holy ground! No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould! But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, Till the sense aches with gazing to behold The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold, Defies the power which crushed thy temples gone: Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares grey Marathon.

The sun, the soil, but not the slave the same-
Unchanged in all, except its foreign lord,

Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame:
The battle-field-where Persia's victim-horde
First bowed beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword,
As on the morn to distant glory dear,
When Marathon became a magic word,
Which uttered, to the hearer's eye appear
The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career!

The flying Mede-his shaftless broken bow!
The fiery Greek-his red pursuing spear!
Mountains above-earth's, ocean's plain below!
Death in the front-destruction in the rear !
Such was the scene,-what now remaineth here?
What sacred trophy marks the hallowed ground
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear?
The rifled urn, the violated mound,

The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around!

Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng;
Long shall the voyager, with the Ionian blast,
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song;
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore ;
Boast of the aged! lesson of the young!
Which sages venerate, and bards adore,

As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore.

The parted bosom clings to wonted home, If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth; He that is lonely, hither let him roam, And gaze complacent on congenial earth. Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth! But he whom sadness sootheth may abide, And scarce regret the region of his birth, When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died.

IX. -ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC.

AN ODE IN HONOUR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY.

(DRYDEN.)

His career

Alexander the Great, King of Macedon, was born at Pella in 356 B.C. as a conqueror is well known. He died in 323 B.C., of an illness brought on by the unhealthy nature of the marshy ground near Babylon, and aggravated by a too liberal indulgence in wine at a banquet given to his officers. It is not, however, his banquet at Babylon, but one at Persepolis, some years before, that Dryden takes as the subject of his poem.

John Dryden, one of the greatest of English poets and satirists, was born in Northamptonshire in 1631. He died in 1700, and was buried in Westminster

Abbey.

St. Cecilia, the patron saint of music, was a Roman lady who suffered martyrdom in the third century. She is said to have been taught music by an angel,hence, "She drew an angel down." Her birthday was the 22d November.

'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won

By Philip's warlike son,

Aloft in awful state

The god-like hero sate

On his imperial throne.

His valiant peers were placed around,

Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound:
So should desert in arms be crowned.

The lovely Thais, by his side,

Sat like a blooming Eastern bride,

In flower of youth and beauty's pride.

Happy, happy, happy pair!

None but the brave,

None but the brave,

None but the brave, deserves the fair.

Timotheus, placed on high

Amid the tuneful choir,

With flying fingers touched the lyre :

The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.-

The song began from Jove,

Who left his blissful seat above-
Such is the power of mighty love!--
A dragon's fiery form belied the god:
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode,

When he to fair Olympia pressed,

And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.

The listening crowd admire the lofty sound:

66

'A present deity !" they shout around

"A present deity!” the vaulted roofs rebound;— With ravished ears

The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young !—

The jolly god in triumph comes !
Sound the trumpets! beat the drums!
Flushed with a purple grace,

He shows his honest face.

Now give the hautboys breath!—he comes! he comes!

Bacchus, ever fair and young,

Drinking joys did first ordain ;

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure:
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:

Rich the treasure ;

Sweet the pleasure;

Sweet is pleasure after pain!

Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain ;

Fought all his battles o'er again :

And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the

slain!

The master saw the madness rise,-
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And while he heaven and earth defied-
Changed his hand, and checked his pride.