Duly and cheerfully, to their toil; and up
Rose the sharp hammer's clink, and the far hum
Of moving wheels, and multitudes astir,
And all that in a city murmur swells.

'Room for the leper!' and aside they stood,
Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood—all
Who met him on the way-and let him pass.
And onward through the open gate he came,
A leper, with the ashes on his brow,
Sack-cloth about his loins, and on his lip
A covering, stepping painfully and slow,
And with a difficult utterance, like one
Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down,
Crying, 'Unclean! unclean!'

"Twas daybreak now,-

When at the altar of the temple stood

The holy priest of God. The incense lamp

Burned with a struggling light, and a low chaunt
Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof
Like an articulate wail; and there alone,

To ghastly thinness shrunk, the leper knelt-
The echoes of the melancholy strain

Died in the distant aisles; and he rose up,
Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head
Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off

His costly raiment for the leper's garb,

Then, with his sack-cloth round him, and his lips
Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still

To hear his doom :

'Depart! depart, O child

'Of Israel from the temple of thy God!

For He hath smote thee with His chastening rod,

'And to the desert wild,

From all thou lov'st, away thy feet must flee,

'That from thy plague His people may be free.'
And he went forth-alone; not one of all

The many whom he loved, nor she whose name
Was woven in the fibres of his heart,
Breaking within him now, to come and speak
Comfort unto him-yea, he went his way,
Sick and heart-broken, and alone.

"Tw
Twas noon,-

The leper knelt beside a stagnant pool
In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow,
Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched

The loathsome water to his fevered lips,
Praying that he might be so blessed-to die!
Footsteps approached, and, with no strength to flee,
He drew the covering closer to his lip,

Crying, 'Unclean! unclean!' and, in the folds
Of the coarse sack-cloth, shrouding up his face,
He fell upon the earth till they should pass.
Nearer the stranger came, and bending o'er
The prostrate form, pronounced the leper's name ;-
The voice was music, and disease's pulse

Beat for a moment with restoring thrill :
He rose, and stood;

The stranger gazed awhile,
As if his heart were moved, then stooping down,
He took a little water in his palm,

And laid it on his brow, and said, 'Be clean!'
And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood
Coursed wfth delicious coolness through the veins ;
His palms grew moist, the leprosy was cleansed
He fell and worshipped at the feet of Jesus.

;

Willis.

Ex. 165.

The Drum.

Yonder is a little drum, hanging on the wall;

Dusty wreaths, and tattered flags, round about it fall.

A shepherd youth on Cheviot's hills, watched the sheep whose

skin

A cunning workman wrought, and gave the little drum its din! O, pleasant are fair Cheviot's hills, with velvet verdure spread, And pleasant 'tis, among its heath, to make your summer

bed;

And sweet and clear are Cheviot's rills that trickle to its

vales,

And balmily its tiny flowers breathe on the passing gales. And thus hath felt the shepherd-boy while tending of his fold; Nor thought there was, in all the world, a spot like Cheviot's wold.

And so it was for many a day !—but change with time will

come;

And he (alas for him the day!) he heard the little drum! 'Follow,' said the drummer-boy, 'would you live in story For he who strikes a foeman down, wins a wreath of glory.' 'Rub-a-dub!' and 'rub-a-dub!' the drummer beats awayThe shepherd lets his bleating flock o'er Cheviot wildly stray.

On Egypt's arid wastes of sand the shepherd now is lying; Around him many a parching tongue for 'Water' faintly crying:

O, that he were on Cheviot's hills, with velvet verdure spread, Or lying 'mid the blooming heath where oft he made his bed; Or could he drink of those sweet rills that trickle to its vales, Or breathe once more the balminess of Cheviot's mountain gales!

At length upon his wearied eyes, the mists of slumber come, And he is in his home again-till wakened by the drum ! Take arms! take arms!' his leader cries, 'the hated foeman's nigh!'

Guns loudly roar-steel clanks on steel, and thousands fall to die.

The shepherd's blood makes red the sand: 'O! water-give me some!

My voice might reach a friendly ear-but for that little drum!' 'Mid moaning men, and dying men, the drummer kept his

way,

[day.

And many a one by 'glory' lured, did curse the drum that 'Rub-a-dub!' and 'rub-a-dub!' the drummer beat aloudThe shepherd died! and, ere the morn, the hot sand was his shroud.

-And this is 'Glory?'-Yes; and still will man the tempter

follow,

[hollow!

Nor learn that Glory, like its drum, is but a sound-and

Ex. 166.

The Burial of William the Conqueror.

Lowly upon his bier

The royal Conqueror lay;

Baron and chief stood near,

Silent, in war-array.

Down the long minster's aisle

Crowds mutely gazing streamed,

Altar and tomb the while

Through mists of incense gleamed.

And, by the torches' blaze,

The stately priest had said

High words of power and praise

To the glory of the dead.

They lowered him, with the sound

Of requiems, to repose;

When from the throngs around
A solemn voice arose :-

Jerrold.

'Forbear! forbear!' it cried;
'In the holiest name forbear!
He hath conquered regions wide,
But he shall not slumber there!

'By the violated hearth

Which made way for yon proud shrine:
By the harvests which this earth
Hath borne for me and mine;

'By the house e'en here o'erthrown,
Ön my brethren's native spot:
Hence! with his dark renown,
Cumber our birthplace not!

'Will my sire's unransomed field,
O'er which your censers wave,
To the buried spoiler yield

Soft slumbers in the grave!

'The tree before him fell

Which we cherished many a year; But its deep root yet shall swell,

And heave against his bier.

"The land that I have tilled

Hath yet its brooding breast
With my home's white ashes filled,
And it shall not give him rest!
'Each pillar's massy bed

Hath been wet by weeping eyes—
Away! bestow your dead

Where no wrong against him cries.' Shame glowed on each dark face

Of those proud and steel-girt men, And they bought with gold a place For their leader's dust e'en then :

A little earth for him

Whose banner flew so far!

And a peasant's tale could dim

The name, a nation's star!

One deep voice thus arose

From a heart which wrongs had riven:

Oh! who shall number those

That are but heard in Heaven?

Mrs. Hemans.

Ex. 167.

The Arab's Farewell to his Horse.

My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by, With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye,

Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed, I may not mount on thee again,-thou art sold, my Arab steed;

Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind

The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind.

The stranger hath thy bridle rein-thy master hath his goldFleet-limbed and beautiful! farewell: thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold.

Farewell! these free untirèd limbs full many a mile must

roam,

To reach the chill and wintry sky, which clouds the stranger's home.

Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed

prepare

The silky mane I braided once, must be another's care.

The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee Shall I gallop through the desert paths where we were wont to be.

Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain, Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again;

Yes, thou must go, the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun and

sky,

[fly,

Thy master's home, from all of these, my exiled one must Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become

less fleet,

And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet.

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright; Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light; And when I raise my dreaming arm, to check or cheer thy speed,

Then must I starting wake to feel thou'rt sold, my Arab steed,

Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide, Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side,

And the rich blood that is in thee, swells in thy indignant

pain,

Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started

vein.