Cheering though vain; their subterranean cells No safeguard for the thunders rolled above, And through the earth below; the lightnings pierced And called on God to help. There was a man, A Roman soldier, for some daring deed That trespassed on the laws, in dungeon low He had a son; 'twas a rosy boy, A little faithful copy of his sire In face and gesture. She died that gave him birth; and since, the child Every sport The father shared and heightened. But at length The captive's lot He felt in all its bitterness; the walls Of his deep dungeon answered many a sigh And heart-heaved groan. His tale was known, and touched His jailer with compassion; and the boy, Thenceforth a frequent visitor, beguiled His father's lingering hours, and brought a balm Dropped healing. But in this terrific hour He was a poisoned arrow in the breast With earliest morn for them Of that first day of darkness and amaze, Grew hot at length, and thick; but in his straw His body burned with feverish heat; his chains Fearful and ominous, arose and died Like the sad moanings of November's wind Shot through his veins. Now on his couch he shrunk, A troubled, dreamy sleep He slept at last, 102. The Same, continued. Soon the storm Burst forth; the lightnings glanced; the air They awoke; they sprung Again a flood of white flame fills the cell; In darkening, quivering tints, as stunning sound Jarring and lifting- and the massive walls. Heard harshly grate and strain; yet knew he not While evils undefined and yet to come Glanced through his thoughts, what deep and cureless wound Where, wretched father! is thy boy? Thou callest Loudly the father called upon his child; No voice replied. Trembling and anxiously He searched their couch of straw; with headlong haste Seemed bursting from his ears, and from his eyes And strains and snatches and with dreadful cries Calls on his boy. Mad frenzy fires him now; to and fro bounds. The father saw, And all his fury fled; a dead calm fell That instant on him; speechless, fixed he stood,. And, with a look that never wandered, gazed Intensely on the corse. Those laughing eyes Were not yet closed; and round those pouting lips The wonted smile returned. Silent and pale The father stands; no tear is in his eye: The thunders bellow, but he hears them not; Be given, 'twere still a sweeter thing to die It will be given. Look! how the rolling ground, At every swell, nearer and still more near Moves towards the father's outstretched arm his boy! Once he has touched his garment. How his eye And death came soon, and swift, And pangless. The huge pile sunk down at once Into the opening earth. Walls, arches, roof, ATHERSTONE. 103. The Folly of Inconsistent Expectations. THIS world may be considered as a great mart of commerce, where fortune exposes to our view various commodities, — riches, ease, tranquillity, fame, integrity, knowledge. Every thing is marked at a settled price. Our time, our labor, our ingenuity, is so much ready money, which we are to lay out to the best advantage. Examine, compare, choose, reject; but stand to your own judgment, and do not, like children, when you have purchased one thing, repine that you do not possess another which you did not purchase. Such is the force of well-regulated industry, that a steady and vigorous exertion of our faculties, directed to one end, will generally insure success. Would you, for instance, be rich? Do you think that single point worth the sacrifice of every thing else? You may then be rich. Thousands have |