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War, he sung, is toil and trouble ;
Never ending, still beginning,
If the world be worth thy winning, Think, O think, it worth enjoying :
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee.
The Prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the fair
Who caused his care
Sighed and looked, and sighed again :
Now strike the golden lyre again,
Hark, hark, the horrid sound
Has raised up his head :
And amazed, he stares around.
See the furies arise :
How they hiss in their hair,
Behold a ghastly band,
Each a torch in his hand!
And unburied remain
Inglorious on the plain :
To the valiant crew.
How they point to the Persian abodes,
Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey, And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.
Thus long ago,
While organs yet were mute ;
And sounding lyre,
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
Or both divide the crown;
She drew an angel down.
DRIDEX. BARRY CORNWALL.
Close at the edge of a busy town,
A huge quadrangular mansion stands ;
Its walls are all built by pauper hands;
Peer out, through the grates, in sullen bands.
Behind, is a patch of earth, by thorns
Fenced in from the moor's wide marshy plains ; By the side, is a gloomy lane, that steals
To a quarry now filled with years of rains : But within, within! There Poverty scowls,
Nursing in wrath her brood of pains.
Enter and look! In the high-walled yards
Fierce men are pacing the barren ground:
And women are sewing, without a sound;
No communion-no kind thought
Dwells in the pauper's breast of care ;
Nothing to come but the black despair-
Where is the bright-haired girl, that once
With her peasant sire was used to play? Where is the boy whom his mother blest,
Whose eyes were a light on her weary way? Apart--barred out (so the law ordains,)
Barred out from each other by night and day.
Letters they teach in their infant schools;
But where are the lessons of great God taught? Lessons that child to the parent bind
Habits of duty-love unbought ?
Where Nature is trampled and turned to nought.
Seventeen summers, and where the girl
Who never grew up at her father's knee? Twenty autumnal storms have nursed
The pauper's boyhood, and where is he? She earneth her bread in the midnight lanes :
IItnilnth, in nhning ho thn 970thinry Sra.
O Power! O Prudence! Law! look down
From your heights on the pining poor below! O sever not hearts which God hath joined
Together, on earth, for weal and woe. O Senators grave, grave truths may be,
Which ye have not learned, or deigned to know
O Wealth, come forth with an open hand!
O Charity, speak with a softer sound!
But I cease,—for I hear, in the night to come,
EGERIA ! sweet creation of some heart