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BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST.
BARRY CORNWALL.

OVER Babylon's sandy plains
Belshazzar the Assyrian reigns.
A thousand lords at his kingly call
Have met to feast in a spacious hall,
And all the imperial boards are spread,
With dainties whereon the monarch fed,-
Rich cates and floods of the purple grape:
And many a dancer's serpent shape
Steals slowly upon their amorous sights,
Or glances beneath the flaunting lights:
And fountains throw up their silver spray,-
And cymbals clash,-and the trumpets bray
Till the sounds in the arched roof are hung;
And words from the winding horn are flung.
And still the carved cups go round,
And revel, and mirth, and wine abound.
But night has o'ertaken the fading day;
And music has raged her soul away:
The light in the Bacchanal's eye is dim;
And faint is the Georgian's wild love-hymn.
"Bring forth "-on a sudden spoke the king,
And hushed were the lords' loud rioting-
"Bring forth the vessels of silver and gold,
Which Nebuchadnezzar, my sire, of old
Ravished from proud Jerusalem;

And we and our queens will drink from them." And the vessels are brought, of silver and gold, Of stone, and of brass, and of iron old,

And of wood, whose sides like a bright gem shine, And their mouths are all filled with the sparkling wine.

Hark! the king has proclaimed with a stately nod, "Let a health be drunk out unto Baal, the God."They shout and they drink:-but the music moans, And hushed are the revellers' loudest tones: Per a hand comes forth, and 'tis seen by all To write strange words on the plastered wall! -The mirth is over-the soft Greek flute And the voices of women are low-are mute: The Bacchanals' eyes are all staring wide: And where's the Assyrian's pomp of pride? That night the monarch was stung to pain. That night Belshazzar, the king, was slain.

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HUMAN LIFE.

ROGERS.

THE lark has sung his carol in the sky,

The bees have humm'd their noon-tide lullaby;
Still in the vale the village-bells ring round,
Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound;
For now the caudle-cup is circling there,
Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer,
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.

A few short years, and then these sounds shall

hail

The day again, and gladness fill the vale; So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, Eager to run the race his fathers ran. Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin; The ale, now brew'd, in floods of amber shine; And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze, 'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days, The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, "'Twas on these knees he sat so oft and smiled." And soon again shall music swell the breeze; Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees, Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung, And violets scattered round; and old and young, In every cottage-porch with garlands green, Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene, While, her dark eyes declining, by his side, Moves in her virgin veil the gentle bride.

And once, alas! nor in a distant hour, Another voice shall come from yonder tower; When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, And weeping heard where only joy has been;

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When, by his children borne, and from his door,
Slowly departing to return no more,

He rests in holy earth with them that went before.

And such is human life; so gliding on,

It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone!

Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange,

As full, methinks, of wild and wondrous change,

As any that the wandering tribes require,
Stretch'd in the desert round their evening fire;
As any sung of old, in hall or bower,

To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour!

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When the bright summer-sky of time,
Cloudless, is o'er him spread;
When love's bright wreath is in its prime,
With not one blossom dead:
Whilst o'er his hopes, and prospects fair,
No mist of woe hath gone;
Still, he repeats the first taught prayer-
"Father, thy will be done."

But when his sun no longer beams,
And love's sweet flowers decay;
When all hope's rainbow-coloured dreams
Are sadly swept away;

As a flower bent beneath the storm
Still fragrantly breathes on;

So when dark clouds life's heaven deform,
He prays," Thy will be done!"

And when the winter of his age
Sheds o'er his locks its snows;
When he can feel his pilgrimage
Fast drawing to a close:

Then, as he finds his strength decline,
This is his prayer alone:
"To thee my spirit I resign-
Father! thy will be done!"

ENJOYMENTS OF THE BELIEVER.

TOPLADY.

WHEN languor and disease invade
This trembling house of clay,
'Tis sweet to look beyond our cage,
And long to fly away.

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SACRED HARMONY.

Sweet to look inward, and attend

The whispers of His love;
Sweet to look upward to the place
Where Jesus pleads above.

Sweet to look back and see my name

In life's fair book set down:

Sweet to look forward and behold
Eternal joys my own.

Sweet to reflect how grace divine
My sins on Jesus laid;

Sweet to remember that His blood
My debt of suffering paid.

Sweet on his righteousness to stand,
Which saves from second death;
Sweet to experience, day by day,
His Spirit's quick'ning breath.
Sweet on his faithfulness to rest,
Whose love can never end;
Sweet on his covenant of grace
For all things to depend.

Sweet is the confidence of faith,
To trust his firm decrees;
Sweet to lie passive in his hand,
And know no will but his.

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Sweet to rejoice in lively hope,
That when my change shall come
Angels shall hover round my bed,
And waft my spirit home!

If such the views which grace unfolds,
Weak as it is below,
S 2

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