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A gentle hill its side inclines,

Lovely in England's fadeless green,
To meet the quiet stream which winds

Through this romantic scene
As silently and sweetly still
As when, at evening, on that hill,

While summer's wind blew soft and low, .
Seated by gallant Hotspur's side,
His Katherine was a happy bride,

A thousand years ago.

I wandered through the lofty halls

Trod by the Percys of old fame, And traced upon the chapel walls

Each high, heroic name, From him who once his standard set Where now, o'er mosque and minaret,

Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons, To him who, when a younger son, Fought for King George at Lexington,

A major of dragoons.

The age of bargaining, said Burke,
Has come : to-day the turbaned Turk,
(Sleep, Richard of the lion heart !
Sleep on, nor from your cerements start)

Is England's friend and fast ally;
The Moslem tramples on the Greek,

And on the Cross and altar-stone,

And Christendom looks tamely on, And hears the Christian maiden shriek,

And sees the Christian father die ; And not a sabre-blow is given For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven,

By Europe's craven chivalry. You 'll ask if yet the Percy lives

In the armed pomp of feudal state ?
The present representatives

Of Hotspur and his “gentle Kate,"
Are some half-dozen serving-men
In the drab coat of William Penn ;

A chambermaid, whose lip and eye,
And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling,
• Spoke nature's aristocracy.;
And one, half groom, half seneschal,
Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall,
From donjon keep to turret wall,

For ten-and-sixpence sterling.


That last half-stanza, -- it has dashed

From my warm lip the sparkling cup; The light that o'er my eyebeam flashed,

The power that bore my spirit up
Above this bank-note world, is gone;
And Alnwick 's but a market town,
And this, alas ! its market day,
And beasts and borderers throng the way;
Oxen and bleating lambs in lots,
Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots,

Men in the coal and cattle line;
From Teviot's bard and hero land,
From royal Berwick's beach of sand,
From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and



These are not the romantic times
So beautiful in Sperser's rhymes,

So dazzling to the dreaming boy ;
Ours are the days of fact, not fable,
Of knights, but not of the round table,

Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy ; 'T is what “Our President," Monroe,

Has called “the era of good feeling" ;
The Highlander, the bitterest foc
To modern laws, has felt their blow,
Consented to be taxed, and vote,
And put on pantaloons and coat,

And leave off cattle-stealing :
Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt,
The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt,

The Douglass in red herrings ;
And noble name and cultured land,
Palace, and park, and vassal band,
Are powerless to the notes of hand

Of Rothschild or the Barings.

We sat by the fisher's cottage,

And looked at the stormy tide; The evening mist came rising,

And floating far and wide. One by one in the lighthouse

The lamps shone out on high ;
And far on the dim horizon

A ship went sailing by.
We spoke of storm and shipwreck, —

Of sailors, and how they live ;
Of journeys 'twixt sky and water,

And the sorrows and joys they give. We spoke of distant countries,

In regions strange and fair,
And of the wondrous beings

And curious customs there;
Of perfumed lamps on the Ganges,

Which are launched in the twilight hour; And the dark and silent Brahmins,

Who worship the lotos flower.
Of the wretched dwarfs of Lapland, -

Broad-headed, wide-mouthed, and small, Who crouch round their oil-fires, cooking,

And chatter and scream and bawl.

And the maidens earnestly listened, | I seek ye vainly, and see in your place
Till at last we spoke no more ;

The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space,
The ship like a shadow had vanished, A whirling ocean that fills the wall
And darkness fell deep on the shore. Of the crystal heaven, and buries all.

HENRY HEINE (German). Translation And I, cut off from the world, remain

Alone with the terrible hurricane.


THE HURRICANE. LORD of the winds! I feel thee nigh,

I know thy breath in the burning sky!

And I wait, with a thrill in every vein,
For the coming of the hurricane !

To men of other minds iny fancy flies,

Embosomed in the deep where Holland lies. And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales,

Methinks her patient sons before me stand, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails.

Where the broad ocean leans against the land, Silent and slow, and terribly strong,

And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, The mighty shadow is borne along,

Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. Like the dark eternity to come ;

Onward methinks, and diligently slow, While the world below, dismayed and dumb, The firm connected bulwark seems to grow ; Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear. Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore.

While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, They darken fast; and the golden blaze Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile; Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, The slow canal, the yellow-blossomed vale And he sends through the shade a funeral ray The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, A glare that is neither night nor day,

The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, A beam that touches, with hues of death, A new creation rescued from his reign. The clouds above and the earth beneath.

Thus while around the wave-subjected soil To its covert glides the silent bird,

Impels the native to repeated toil, While the hurricane's distant voice is heard Industrious habits in each bosom reign, Uplifted among the mountains round,

And industry begets a love of gain. And the forests hear and answer the sound. Hence all the good from opulence that springs,

With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, He is come ! he is come ! do ye not behold

Are here displayed. His ample robes on the wind unrolled ?

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Giant of air! we bid thee hail ! How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale ; How his huge and writhing arms are bent To clasp the zone of the firmament,

ITALY AND SWITZERLAND. And fold at length, in their dark embrace,

FROM "THE TRAVELLER." . From mountain to mountain the visible space.

Far to the right where Apennine ascends, Darker,--still darker ! the whirlwinds bear Bright as the summer, Italy extends. The dust of the plains to the middle air ; | Its uplands sloping deck the inountain's side, And hark to the crashing, long and loud,

Woods over woods, in gay theatric pride ; Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud! While oft some temple's mouldering tops between You may trace its path by the flashes that start With venerable grandeur mark the scene. From the rapid wheels where'er they dart,

Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, The sons of Italy were surely blest. And flood the skies with a lurid glow. .

Whatever fruits in different climes were found,

That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground; What roar is that?- 't is the rain that breaks Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, In torrents away from the airy lakes,

Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, Whatever sweets salute the northern sky ' And shedding a nameless horror round. With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ;

Ah! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, These here disporting own the kindred soil, With the very clouds ! - ye are lost to my eyes. I Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil;

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