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thou will—" what would have been the
consequence if any body else had taken such a
liberty? Blood at least. Yet Maggie Sharp
and Tom Gafferson could forgive anything
in Mr. Scottforth. They forgave him so
completely indeed, that they were married six
weeks afterwards, and at a certain event
thereafter ensuing, solicited Jack (for about
the five hundredth time in his life) to stand
godfather.

Thus merrily, charitably, through a peaceful,
useful life, Lile Jack went down
towards an honourable grave. He heaped not
up riches, knowing not who should gather
them; he gave not according to his means,
but according to the want of means of the
poor and lowly. He was a Lile man, and
his purse was as open as his heart.

     THE WITHERED KING.

TYRANTS dread all whom they raise high in place;
From the good, danger, from the bad, disgrace.
They doubt the lords, mistrust the people's hate,
Till blood becomes a principle of state:
Secured nor by their guards, nor by their right;
But still they fear even more than they affright.
                                                            COWLEY.

So have I read a story of a king
  Whose hand was heavy on the hearts of men,
Whose tongue spoke lies, and every lie a sting,
  Who trampled onward through a gory fen,
And laugh'd to see its teeming haze arise,
Spreading a crimson mist before the skies.

But age fell on him, and with age a dread
  Of life and death a leaden gloom of fear
That sat down at his board, and filled his bed,
  And stirr'd his flesh, and crept within his hair.
In crowds he fear'd each man; and, when alone,
He fear'd himself, and wasted to the bone.

Within a castle strongly fortified
  He shut himself, and listened all day long
To his own mutterings, and the wind that sigh'd
  In the outer trees, a close and secret song;
And when night fell, he sat with straining ear,
And hearken'd for some danger gathering near.

For there were foes within his land, and they
  Were mighty, and had carv'd a forward path;
And he could hear them marching on their way,
  With endless trampling and a cry of wrath,
As though the many he had laid in ground
Had risen with a huge triumphant sound.

Therefore, an iron grating, like a net,
  He cast about the walls at every point,
With iron turrets at the corners set,
  And massive clamps that grappled joint to joint;
And at the loop-holes always might be seen
The warders with their arrows long and keen.

Likewise, upon the ramparts at all hours
  The pacing sentries wandered to and fro,
Outlooking from the high and windy towers
  Over the level plain that drows'd below;
And to them constantly the king would cry
To shoot at whomsoever wandered by.

From forth this prison durst he never pass,
  But roam'd about the chambers up and down;
And twenty times a day he cried, " Alas!
  I wither in my own perpetual frown."
And every day he wish'd that he were dead;
Yet death he fear'd with an exceeding dread.

Along the court-yard, sadden'd with the shade
  Of circling battlementsa stony nook
For natural exercise at times he stray'd,
  With eyes upon the ground as on a hook:
His own sad captive, fearfully confined
In this his dungeon-castle hard and blind.

In bed, when massive darkness fill'd his eyes,
  He would lie staring till his sight made gleams
Upon the blackness, and black sleep would rise
  As from a cavern, follow'd by fierce dreams
That, bloodhound-like, pursued and hunted him
Incessantly through aspects foul and grim.

Sometimes he dreamt the foe had scaled the wall;
  And he would wake, and to the ramparts haste,
And see the staring moon sicken and fall
  Down the horizon, and the small stars waste
In scarlet day-dawn, while the warder nigh
Gazed outward with a still and steady eye.

And he would bid the captain of the guard
  Appoint a double watch at every post,
And let the entries be more strongly barr'd;
  Then, cold and pale and drooping as a ghost,
He would return to sleep, and with a start
Would wake, and find the terror at his heart.

And so, unwept, he died; and soon his foe
  Possess'd the land, and sway'd it with great might
It is a simple tale of long ago,
  Which the swift ages bear up in their flight;
But one large fact a thousand times appeals
In the revolving of returning years.

Even now a sceptred tyrant, Europe-bann'd,
  Listens the enemy's approach, and waits
To hear his strongholds crumble into sand,
  And the loud cannon knocking at the gates.
In vain his armed legions round him draw;
For who can save him from his inward awe?

           FAITHFUL MARGARET.

THE moonlight was lying broad and calm
on the mountains and the lake, silvering the
fir-trees massed against the sky, and quivering
through the leaves of the birch and the
ash, as they trembled in the light air which
could not move the heavy horse-chestnut
growing by them. The call of the corncraik
from the meadow, and the far-off barking of
a sheep-dog on the fells, were the only
sounds that broke through the evening stillness;
except whenever now and then
the plash of oars in the lake, and the
subdued voices of men and women gliding
by, recalled to the listeners standing on the
balcony, that other hearts were worshipping
with them before the holy shrine of nature.

They had been on the balcony for a long
time, looking out on the scene before them;
Horace resting against the pillar, and
Margaret standing near him. A curtain of creeping
plants hung far down, and their leaves
threw Horace into deep shadow; but the
moonlight fell full and bright over the
woman by his side; yet not to show
anything that art or fancy could call lovely. A
grave and careworn face, with nothing

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