She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fang, That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate; Thy sateless son shall o'er thy country hang The scourge of Heaven.

"Mighty victor, mighty lord,

Low on his funeral couch he lies!
No pitying heart, no eye afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.
Is the sable warrior fled?

Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
The swarm, that in the noontide beam were born,
Gone to salute the rising morn.

Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;

Youth on the prow, and pleasure at the helm: Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

"Fill high the sparkling bowl,

The rich repast prepare;

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast;

Close by the regal chair,

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

A baleful smile upon the baffled guest.

Heard ye

the din of battle bray,

Lance to lance, and horse to horse?

Long years of havoc urge their destined course,
And through the kindred squadrons mow their way.

"Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
Reverse his consort's faith, his father's fame,
And spare the meek usurper's holy head.
Above, below, the rose of snow,

Twined with her blushing foe we spread :

The bristled Boar in infant gore

Wallows beneath the thorny shade.

"But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll! Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. All hail, ye genuine kings; Britannia's issue, hail ! "Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear;

And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old, In bearded majesty, appear.

In the midst a form divine!

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line:
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.

"The verse adorn again,

Fierce War, and faithful Love,
And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.
In buskin'd measures move
Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,

With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
A voice, as of the cherub-choir,

Gales from blooming Eden bear;

And distant warblings lessen on my ear,
That lost in long futurity expire.

Fond, impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud,
Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
Enough for me: with joy I see

The different doom our fates assign.
Be thine despair, and sceptred care;
To triumph, and to die, are mine."

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height, Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. GRAY.

HOME AND CLASS WORK.

Learn the spellings and meanings at the top of the page; and write sentences containing these words.

Some incidents happened which revived her tenderness for Essex, and filled her with the deepest sorrow for the consent which she had unwarily given to his

execution.

The Earl of Essex, after his return from the fortunate expedition against Cadiz, observing the increase

H

of the queen's fond attachment towards him, took occasion to regret that the necessity of her service required him often to be absent from her person, and exposed him to all those ill offices which her enemies, more assiduous in their attendance, could employ against him. She was moved with this tender jealousy; and making him the present of a ring, desired him to keep that pledge of her affection, and assured him that into whatever disgrace he should fall, whatever prejudice she might be induced to entertain against him, yet if he sent her that ring, she would immediately, upon sight of it, recall her former tenderness, would afford him a patient hearing, and would lend a favourable ear to his apology. Essex, notwithstanding all his misfortunes, reserved this precious gift to the last extremity; but after his trial and condemnation, he resolved to try the experiment, and he committed the ring to the countess of Nottingham, whom he desired to deliver it to the queen.

The countess was prevailed on by her husband, the mortal enemy of Essex, not to execute the commission; and Elizabeth, who still expected that her favourite would make this last appeal to her tenderness, and who ascribed the neglect of it to his invincible obstinacy, was, after much delay and many internal combats, pushed by resentment and policy to sign the warrant for his execution. The countess of Nottingham falling into sickness, and affected with the near approach of death, was seized with remorse for her conduct; and having obtained a visit from the queen, she craved her pardon, and revealed to her the fatal secret.

The queen, astonished with this incident, burst into a furious passion: she shook the dying countess in her bed; and crying to her that God might pardon her, but she never could, she broke from her, and thence

forth resigned herself over to the deepest and most incurable melancholy. She rejected all consolation: she even refused food and sustenance; and, throwing herself on the floor, she remained sullen and immovable, feeding her thoughts on her afflictions, and declaring life and existence an insufferable burden to her. Few words she uttered; and they were all expressive of some inward grief which she cared not to reveal: but sighs and groans were the chief vent which she gave to her despondency, and which, though they discovered her sorrows, were never able to ease or assuage them. Ten days and nights she lay upon the carpet, leaning on cushions which her maids brought her; and her physicians could not persuade her to allow herself to be put to bed, much less to make trial of any remedies which they prescribed to her. Her anxious mind at last had so long preyed on her frail body, that her end was visibly approaching; and the council being assembled, sent the keeper, admiral, and secretary, to know her will with regard to her successor. She answered with a faint voice that as she had held a regal sceptre, she desired no other than a royal successor. Cecil requesting her to explain herself more particularly, she subjoined that she would have a king to succeed her; and who should that be but her nearest kinsman, the king of Scots ?

Being advised by the archbishop of Canterbury to fix her thoughts upon God, she replied that she did so, nor did her mind in the least wander from him. Her voice soon after left her; her senses failed; she fell into a lethargic slumber, which continued some hours, and she expired gently, without further struggle or convulsion (March 24), in the seventieth year of her age and forty-fifth of her reign. DAVID HUME.