And artless notes renew the failing strains;
The honest boor his vocal talent tries,
Approving love beams from his "fair one's eyes,"
While age, in silent joy, forgets its pains.

J.J.

* * * * *


THE DEATH OF SALADIN.[9]

[9] For the particulars of which, see Knolle's "history of the Turks."

(_For the Mirror._)


The angel of death hath too surely prest
His fatal sign on the warrior's breast--
Quench'd is the light of the eagle-eye,
And the nervous limbs rest languidly--
The eloquent tongue is silent and still,
The deep clear voice again may not chill
The hearers' hearts with its own deep thrill.

Ah, who can gaze on death, nor inward feel
A creeping horror through the bosom steal,
Like one who stands upon a precipice,
And sees below a mangled sacrifice,
Feeling that he himself must ere long fall,