SIEGE OF BELGRADE.
An Austrian army, awfully arrayed, Boldly by battery besieged Belgrade. Cossack commanders cannonading come, Dealing destruction's devastating doom. Every endeavor engineers essay, For fame, for fortune fighting,—furious fray! Generals 'gainst generals grapple—gracious God! How honors Heaven heroic hardihood! Infuriate, indiscriminate in ill, Kindred kill kinsmen, kinsmen kindred kill. Labor low levels longest loftiest lines; Men march mid mounds, mid moles, mid murderous mines; Now noxious, noisy numbers nothing, naught Of outward obstacles, opposing ought; Poor patriots, partly purchased, partly pressed, Quite quaking, quickly "Quarter! Quarter!" quest. Reason returns, religious right redounds, Suwarrow stops such sanguinary sounds. Truce to thee, Turkey! Triumph to thy train, Unwise, unjust, unmerciful Ukraine! Vanish, vain victory! vanish, victory vain! Why wish we warfare? Wherefore welcome were Xerxes, Ximenes, Xanthus, Xavier? Yield, yield, ye youths! ye yeomen, yield your yell! Zeus's, Zarpater's, Zoroaster's zeal, Attracting all, arms against acts appeal!
ANONYMOUS.
| MY LOVE. | |
I only knew she came and went |
Lowell. |
| Like troutlets in a pool; | Hood. |
| She was a phantom of delight, | Wordsworth. |
| And I was like a fool. | Eastman. |
One kiss, dear maid, I said, and sighed, |
Coleridge. |
| Out of those lips unshorn: | Longfellow. |
| She shook her ringlets round her head, | Stoddard. |
| And laughed in merry scorn. | Tennyson. |
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, |
Tennyson. |
| You heard them, O my heart; | Alice Carey. |
| 'T is twelve at night by the castle clock, | Coleridge. |
| Belovèd, we must part. | Alice Carey. |
"Come back, come back!" she cried in grief, |
Campbell. |
| "My eyes are dim with tears, | Bayard Taylor. |
| How shall I live through all the days? | Osgood. |
| All through a hundred years? | T. S. Perry. |
'T was in the prime of summer time |
Hood. |
| She blessed me with her hand; | Hoyt. |
| We strayed together, deeply blest, | Edwards. |
| Into the dreaming land. | Cornwall. |
The laughing bridal roses blow, |
Patmore. |
| To dress her dark-brown hair; | Bayard Taylor. |
| My heart is breaking with my woe, | Tennyson. |
| Most beautiful! most rare! | Read. |
I clasped it on her sweet, cold hand, |
Browning. |
| The precious golden link! | Smith. |
| I calmed her fears, and she was calm, | Coleridge. |
| "Drink, pretty creature, drink." | Wordsworth. |
And so I won my Genevieve, |
Coleridge. |
| And walked in Paradise; | Hervey. |
| The fairest thing that ever grew | Wordsworth. |
| Atween me and the skies. | Osgood. |
ANONYMOUS |
|
ODE TO THE HUMAN HEART. | |
Blind Thamyris, and Blind Mæonides, |
Milton. |
| Pursue the triumph and partake the gale! | Pope. |
| Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees, | Shakespeare. |
| To point a moral or adorn a tale. | Johnson. |
Full many a gem of purest ray serene, |
Gray. |
| Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears, | Tennyson. |
| Like angels' visits, few and far between, | Campbell. |
| Deck the long vista of departed years. | ??? |
Man never is, but always to be blessed; |
Pope. |
| The tenth transmitter of a foolish face, | Savage. |
| Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest, | Pope. |
| And makes a sunshine in the shady place. | Spenser. |
For man the hermit sighed, till the woman smiled, |
Campbell. |
| To waft a feather or to drown a fly, | Young. |
| (In wit a man, simplicity a child,) | Pope. |
| With silent finger pointing to the sky. | ??? |
But fools rush in where angels fear to tread, |
Pope. |
| Far out amid the melancholy main; | Thomson. |
| As when a vulture on Imaus bred, | ??? |
| Dies of a rose in aromatic pain. | Pope. |
LAMAN BLANCHARD. |
|
METRICAL FEET.
Trochee trips from long to short; From long to long in solemn sort Slow Spondee stalks; strong foot! yet ill able Ever to come up with dactyl trisyllable. Iambics march from short to long;— With a leap and a bound the swift Anapæsts throng; One syllable long, with one short at each side, Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride;— First and last being long, middle short, Amphimacer Strikes his thundering hoofs like a proud high-bred racer.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
NOCTURNAL SKETCH. BLANK VERSE IN RHYME.
Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark, The signal of the setting sun—one gun! And six is sounding from the chime, prime time To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,— Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,— Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade, Denying to his frantic clutch much touch; Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride Four horses as no other man can span; Or in the small Olympic pit sit split Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.