Part 4 (2/2)

In all its history it has been beneficent: it has trodden down no man's liberty; it has crushed no state. Its daily respiration is liberty and patriotism; its yet youthful veins are full of enterprise, courage, and honorable love of glory and renown. Large before, the country has now, by recent events, becomes vastly larger.

This republic now extends, with a vast breadth, across the whole continent.

The two great seas of the world wash the one and the other sh.o.r.e. We realize, on a mighty scale, the beautiful description of the ornamental edging of the buckler of Achilles--

”Now the broad s.h.i.+eld complete, the artist crowned With his last hand, and poured the ocean round; In living silver seemed the waves to roll, And beat the buckler's verge, and bound the whole.”

IN ARABIA.

BY JAMES BERRY BENSEL, 1856.

”Choose thou between!” and to his enemy The Arab chief a brawny hand displayed, Wherein, like moonlight on a sullen sea, Gleamed the gray scimitar's enamelled blade.

”Choose thou between death at my hand and thine!

Close in my power, my vengeance I may wreak, Yet hesitate to strike. A hate like mine Is n.o.ble still. Thou hast thy choosing--speak!”

And Ackbar stood. About him all the band That hailed his captor chieftain, with grave eyes His answer waited, while that heavy hand Stretched like a bar between him and the skies.

Straight in the face before him Ackbar sent A sneer of scorn, and raised his n.o.ble head; ”Strike!” and the desert monarch, as content, Rehung the weapon at his girdle red.

Then Ackbar nearer crept and lifted high His arms toward the heaven so far and blue Wherein the sunset rays began to die, While o'er the band, a deeper silence grew.

”Strike! I am ready! Did'st thou think to see A son of Gheva spill upon the dust His n.o.ble blood? Did'st hope to have my knee Bend at thy feet, and with one mighty thrust,

”The life thou hatest flee before thee here?

Shame on thee! on thy race! Art thou the one Who hast so long his vengeance counted dear?

My hate is greater; I did strike thy son,

”Thy one son, Noumid, dead before my face; And by the swiftest courser of my stud Sent to thy door his corpse. And one might trace Their flight across the desert by his blood.

”Strike! for my hate is greater than thy own!”

But with a frown the Arab moved away, Walked to a distant palm and stood alone With eyes that looked where purple mountains lay.

This for an instant; then he turned again Toward the place where Ackbar waited still, Walking as one benumbed with bitter pain, Or with a hateful mission to fulfil.

”Strike! for I hate thee!” Ackbar cried once more, ”Nay, but my hate I cannot find!” said now His enemy. ”Thy freedom I restore, Live, life were worse than death to such as thou.”

So with his gift of life, the Bedouin slept That night untroubled; but when dawn broke through The purple East, and o'er his eyelids crept The long, thin finger of the light, he drew

A heavy breath and woke. Above him shone A lifted dagger--”Yea, he gave thee life, But I give death!” came in fierce undertone, And Ackbar died. It was dead Noumid's wife.

The New Year Ledger.

BY AMELIA E. BARR.

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