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Which answered not with a caress-he died.
And they were enemies; they met beside
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 make a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirred within their silent depths:
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropped 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 withered in the stagnant air,
Prostrate in the dust
Those walls were laid, and towns and temples stood
Tottering in frightful ruins, as the flame
Had left them, black and bare; and through the streets,
All with the recent wreck of war bestrewn,
Helmet and turban, scymitar and sword,
Christian and Moor in death promiscuous lay,
Each where they fell; and blood flakes, parched and
Like the dry slime of some receding flood;
And half-burnt bodies, which allured from far
The wolf and raven, and to impious food
A thrilling pang,
A sweat like death, a sickness of the soul
Came over Roderick. Soon they past away,
And admiration in their stead arose,
Stern joy, and inextinguishable hope,
With wrath, and hate, and sacred vengeance now
True Goths ye fell, and faithful to the last;
Severest anguish set a fixedness:
Ghastlier than death.
She led him through the streets
A little way along, where four low walls,
A comely matron, for whose middle age
For all its inhabitants-what better grave?
Their blood, thou earth! nor ye, ye blessed souls
Of heroes and of murdered innocents,
O never let your everlasting cries
Cease round the eternal throne, till the Most High, For all these unexampled wrongs, hath given
Full, overflowing vengeance.
THE MESSENGER BIRD.
Some of the native Brazilians pay great veneration to a certain bird that sings mournfully in the night-time. They say it is a messenger which their deceased friends and relations have sent, and that it brings them news from the other world.
See Picart's Ceremonies and Religious Customs,
Thou art come from the spirit's land, thou bird!
We know that the bowers are green and fair
And we know that the friends we have lost are there,
And we know they have quenched their fever's thirst
For there must the stream in its freshness burst