When joy's bright sun has shed his evening ray,
And hope's delusive meteors cease to play,
When clouds on clouds the smiling prospect close,
Still through the gloom thy star serenely glows;
Like yon fair orb she gilds the brow of night
With the mild magic of reflected light.

And who can tell the triumphs of the mind
By truth illumined and by taste refined?
When age has quenched the eye and closed the ear,
Still nerved for action in her native sphere,
Oft will she rise, with searching glance pursue
Some long-loved image vanished from her view,
Dart through the deep recesses of the past
O'er dusky forms in chains of slumber cast,
With giant grasp fling back the folds of night,
And snatch the faithless fugitive to light.

Hail, Memory, hail! In thy exhaustless mine
From age to age, unnumbered glories shine.
Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey,
And place and time are subject to thy sway.
Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone-
The only pleasures we can call our own.
Lighter than air hope's summer visions fly,
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky;
If but a beam of sober reason play,
Lo! fancy's fairy frost-work melts away;
But can the wiles of art, the grasp of power,
Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour?
These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight,
Pour round her path a stream of living light,
And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest
Where virtue triumphs, and her sons are blessed.,

Ex. CXLII.-THE BULL-FIGHT.

LOCKHART.

KING Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid the trumpet sound, He hath summoned all the Moorish lords from the hills and plains around;

From Vega and Sierra, from Betis and Xenil,

They have come with helm and cuirass of gold and twisted steel.

'Tis the holy Baptist's feast they hold in royalty and state, And they have closed the spacious lists beside the Alhambra's gate;

In gowns of black with silver laced, within the tented ring, Eight Moors to fight the bull are placed, in presence of the king.

Eight Moorish lords of valor tried, with stalwart arm and true,

The onset of the beasts abide, as they come rushing through; The deeds they've done, the spoils they've won, fill all with hope and trust,

Yet, ere high in heaven appears the sun, they all have bit the dust.

Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then clangs the loud tam

bour:

"Make room, make room for Gazul!-throw wide, throw wide the door!

Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still,-more loudly strike the drum!

The Alcayde of Algava to fight the bull doth come.”

And first before the king he passed, with reverence stooping

low,

And next he bowed him to the queen, and the infantas all a-rowe;

Then to his lady's grace he turned, and she to him did throw
A scarf from out her balcony was whiter than the snow.
With the life-blood of the slaughtered lords all slippery is the
sand,

Yet proudly in the center hath Gazul ta'en his stand;
And ladies look with heaving breast, and lords with anxious

eye,

But firmly he extends his arm,-his look is calm and high. Three bulls against the knight are loosed, and two come roar

ing on,

He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching his rejón;

Each furious beast, upon the breast he deals him such a blow, He blindly totters and gives back across the sand to go.

"Turn, Gazul, turn!" the people cry, the third comes up

behind,

Low to the sand his head holds he, his nostrils snuff the wind;

The mountaineers that lead the steers without stand whisper

ing low,

"Now thinks this proud Alcaydé to stun Harpado so?”

Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth

boil,

And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil.

His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow; But now they stare with one red glare of glass upon the foe. Now stops the drum; close, close they come; thrice meet, and thrice give back;

The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger's breast of black,

The white foam of the charger on Harpado's front of dun; Once more advance upon his lance,—once more, thou fearless

one!

Once more, once more!-in dust and gore to ruin must thou reel!

In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand with furious heel,-
In vain, in vain, thou noble beast!-I see, I see thee stagger,
Now keen and cold thy neck must hold the stern Alcaydé's
dagger!

They have slipped a noose around his feet, six horses are brought in,

And away they drag Harpado with a loud and joyful din. Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand, and the ring of price

bestow

Upon Gazul of Algava, that hath laid Harpado low.

Ex. CXLIII.-SPEECH OF SPARTACUS TO HIS FELLOW

GLADIATORS.*

E. KELLOGG.

Ir had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus, returning with victorious eagles, had amused the populace, with the sports of the amphitheater, to an extent unknown even in that luxurious city. The shouts of revelry had died away; the roar of the lion had ceased; the last loiterer had retired

* Contributed by the Author, to PROFESSOR RUSSELL'S "University Speaker."

from the banquet; and the lights in the palace of the victor were extinguished. The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered the dewdrop on the corslet of the Roman sentinel, and tipped the dark waters of Volturnus with a wavy, tremulous light. No sound is heard but the last sob of the retiring wave, telling its story to the smooth pebbles of the beach; and then, all is still, as the breast when the spirit has departed.

In the deep recesses of the amphitheater, a band of gladiators were assembled; their muscles still knotted with the agony of conflict; the foam upon their lips, and the scowl of battle yet lingering upon their brows,-when Spartacus, rising in their midst, thus addressed them:

"Ye call me chief, and ye do well to call him chief, who, for twelve long years, has met upon the arena every shape of man, or beast, the broad empire of Rome could furnish; and never yet lowered his arms. And if there is one among you, who can say that ever, in public fight, or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him step forth and do it! If there be three, in all your company, dare face me, on the bloody sand, let them COME ON!

"Yet I was not always thus, a hired butcher, a savage chief of still more savage men. My father was a Thracian of Pieria, a pious man, who feared great Jupiter, and brought to the rural deities his offerings of fruits and flowers. My ancestors came from Greece, and settled among the vine-clad rocks and citron groves of Syrasello. My early life ran quiet as the brook by which I played; and when, at noon, I gathered my sheep beneath the shade, to play upon the shepherd's flute, I had a friend, the son of our neighbor, to share the pleasure. We led our flocks to the same pasture, and shared together our rustic meal.

"One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle that shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra, and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, withstood a whole army. I did not know what war meant then; but my cheek did burn, I knew not why; and I did clasp the knees of the venerable man, till my mother, parting the hair from off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and think no more of those old tales, and savage wars.

"That very night the Romans landed on our shores, and the clash of steel was heard within our quiet vale. I saw the

breast that nourished me trampled by the iron heel, of the war-horse; the bleeding body of my father flung amid the blazing rafters of his dwelling. I killed a man, to-day, in the arena; and when I broke his helmet-clasps, behold! IT WAS MY FRIEND! He knew me,-smiled faintly,-gasped,and died. The same sweet smile that I had marked upon his face, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled some lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph. I told the Prætor he was my friend, noble and brave, and begged his body, that I might burn it upon the funeral pile, and mourn over him.

"Ay! on my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, with tears, I begged that boon; while all the Roman maids, and matrons, and those holy virgins, they call vestal, and the rabble, shouted as if mad, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble, like a very child, before that piece of bleeding clay; but he drew back as if I were pollution, and sternly said, Let the carrion rot! There are no noble men but Romans!'

"And he, deprived of funeral rites, must wander, a hapless ghost, beside the waters of that sluggish river, and lookand look-and look in vain, to the bright Elysian fields, where dwell his ancestors and noble kindred. And so must you; and so must I, die like dogs.

"O Rome! Rome! I thank thee! thou hast been a ten der nurse to me. Aye! thou hast given to that poor, gentle, timid, shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher sound than flute notes, muscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught him to drive the sword through bones, and rugged brass, and plaited mail; and warm it in the marrow of his foe; to gaze into the glazing eye-balls of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a smooth-cheeked boy, upon a laughing girl; and he shall pay thee back, till the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest oozing life-blood lies curdled!

"Ye stand here, now, like giants, as ye are: the strength of brass is in your toughened fibers;-but to-morrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet odors from his curling locks, shall come, and, with his lily fingers, pat your red brawn, and bet his sesterces upon your blood!

"Listen! Hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? 'Tis three days since he tasted meat; but, to-morrow, he shall break his fast upon your flesh; and ye will be a dainty meal for him. If ye are brutes, then stand like fat oxen waiting for the butcher's knife; but if ye are men, then FOLLOW ME! Strike