And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild
birds shriek'd

And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twined themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless-they were slain for

food!

And War, which for a moment was no more, Did glut himself again :-a meal was bought With blood, and each sate sullenly apart Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left; All earth was but one thought—and that was death

Immediate and inglorious; and the pang

Of famine fed upon all entrails-men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their
flesh;

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The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 50
Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no
food,

But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer'd not with a caress-he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two

Of an enormous city did survive,

And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place

Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things For an unholy usage; they raked up,

And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands

The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath

Blew for a little life, and made a flame

Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects-saw, and shriek'd, and
died-

Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was
void,

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The populous and the powerful was a lump, 70
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless,
A lump of death-a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,

And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd

They slept on the abyss without a surge-
The waves were dead; the tides were in their

grave,

The moon, their mistress, had expired before; The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, 80 And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need Of aid from them-She was the Universe.

1816.

Lord Byron.

OPPORTUNITY

THIS I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream :—
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's
banner

Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.

A craven hung along the battle's edge,

And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steelThat blue blade that the king's son bears,- but this

Blunt thing!" he snapt and flung it from his hand,

And lowering crept away and left the field.
Then came the king's son, wounded, sore

bestead,

And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt buried in the dry and trodden sand,

And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,

And saved a great cause that heroic day.

1887.

Edward Rowland Sill.

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL

PRELUDE TO PART FIRST

OVER his keys the musing organist,
Beginning doubtfully and far away,

First lets his fingers wander as they list,

And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his

lay;

Then, as the touch of his loved instrument

Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his
theme,

First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent
Along the wavering vista of his dream.

Not only around our infancy

Doth heaven with all its splendors lie;
Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,
We Sinais climb and know it not;

Over our manhood bend the skies;
Against our fallen and traitor lives

The great winds utter prophecies;

With our faint hearts the mountain strives;

ΙΟ

Its arms outstretched, the druid wood

Waits with its benedicite;

And to our age's drowsy blood

Still shouts the inspiring sea.

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us; The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives

us,

We bargain for the graves we lie in;

At the Devil's booth are all things sold,
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;
For a cap and bells our lives we pay,
Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking:
'T is heaven alone that is given away,

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'T is only God may be had for the asking; 30 There is no price set on the lavish summer; And June may be had by the poorest comer.

And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays:
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and
towers,

And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;

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