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to this fatal period: employ them as thou wilt; recline on these heaps of gold; command the infernal potentates; range at thy pleasure through these immense subterranean domains: no barrier shall be shut against thee. As for me, I have fulfilled my mission: I now leave thee to thyself." At these words he vanished.

-BECKFORD.

ΤΗ

MERCY.

HE quality of mercy is not strained;

It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven,
Upon the place beneath it is twice blessed,-
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,-
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.

—ShakespeaRE.

I

BLIGHTED HOPES.

KNEW, I knew it could not last —

'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but 'tis past!

Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour,

I've seen my fondest hopes decay ;

I never loved a tree or flower,

But 'twas the first to fade away.

I never nursed a dear gazelle,

To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well,
And love me, it was sure to die!

Now too-the joy most like divine
Of all I ever dreamt or knew,
To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine-
O misery! must I lose that too?

Yet go-on peril's brink we meet ;

Those frightful rocks-that treacherous sea

No, never come again-though sweet,

Though heaven, it may be death to thee.

Farewell! and blessings on thy way,

Where'er thou go'st, beloved stranger!

Better to sit and watch that ray,

And think thee safe, though far away,

Than have thee near me, and in danger!

-MOORE.

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T

GOUGAUNE BARRA.

HERE is a green island in lone Gougaune Barra,

Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow;

In deep-valleyed Desmond :—a thousand wild fountains
Come down to that lake, from their home in the mountains.
There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow
Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow;
As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning,
It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning.
And its zone of dark hills-oh! to see them all bright'ning
When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning;
And the waters rush down 'mid the thunder's deep rattle,
Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle;
And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming,
And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming :-
Oh! where is the dwelling in valley, or high land,

So meet for a bard as this lone little island?

How oft, when the summer sun rested on Clara,
And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera,

Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean,
And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion;
And thought of thy bards, when assembling together
In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy heather,
They fled from the foeman's dark bondage and slaughter,
And waked their last song by the rush of thy water.

- CALLANAN.

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