In that same hour and hall, the fingers of a hand Came forth against the wall, and wrote as if on sand:

The fingers of a man ;—a solitary hand

Along the letters ran, and traced them like a wand.

The monarch saw, and shook, and bade no more rejoice;

All bloodless waxed his look, and tremulous his voice :

'Let the men of lore appear, the wisest of the earth,

And expound the words of fear which mar our royal mirth.'

Chaldea's seers are good, but here they have no

skill;

And the unknown letters stood untold and awful

still.

And Babel's men of age are wise and deep in lore, But now they were not sage; they saw-but knew

no more.

A captive in the land, a stranger and a youth, He heard the king's command, he saw the writing's truth.

The lamps around were bright, the prophecy in view;

He read it on that night,-the morrow proved it true.

Belshazzar's grave is made, his kingdom passed

away,

He, in the balance weighed, is light and worthless clay;

The shroud his robe of state, his canopy the stone; The Mede is at his gate, the Persian on his throne !'

LESSON 36.

POETS AND THEIR POETRY.

IV. OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

copse, wood
counterfeited, not genuine
episcopal, belonging to a
bishop

furze, the gorse

gauge, measure the contents of casks and other vessels

presage, predict, foretell
summarily, quickly
vagrant, begging, wander-
ing

wake, sitting up all night
with a dead body
wile, art, playfulness

subsequently

triumphed

ordination unpractised

unprofitably vanquished venerable

Strictly speaking, Goldsmith was an Irishman, having been born in the county of Longford, in 1728. His life forms one of the strangest, yet most interesting, biographies ever written. He made but little headway either at school or college, and still less in some five or six professions which he tried. Yielding to the wishes of his friends, who were anxious for him to enter the Church, he applied to the bishop for ordination; but as he made his appearance in a suit of bright scarlet. he was summarily turned out of the episcopal palace.

After this he set out for Cork, intending to emigrate; but he lost all his money at a gamingtable, and was glad to accept a handful of peas which a girl gave him at an Irish wake. His life subsequently was almost one continual struggle against poverty. He rambled through most of the countries of Europe, and often had he to

perform with his flute in the streets to procure a morsel of bread or a night's lodgings. He died at the comparatively early age of forty-six, being £2000 in debt. His merits were not unacknowledged; he was buried in the Temple Church, and a monument was erected to his memory in Westminster Abbey.

his poetical works Village and The

he was also a prose writer.

mer of the describes sons whom known. For we select his of two of

preacher and

The best known of are The Deserted Traveller; but

very extensive In the for

poems he

various per

he had

our purpose description

them the the teacher.

THE VILLAGE PARSON.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear;
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place;
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain:

The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

Sat by his fire, and talked the night away

Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were

won.

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all.
And as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;

E'en children followed with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.

His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest,

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest;

To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,

Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, The village master taught his little school. A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned; Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault. The village all declared how much he knew; 'Twas certain he could write and cypher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And e'en the story ran that he could gauge; In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still;