I thought we had hurl'd him Down on the threshold, never more to rise. Bring wedge and axe; and, neighbours, lend your hands And rive the idol into winter fagots!

Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land, For many a long month lost in snow profound, When Sol from Cancer sends the seasons bland, And in their northern cave the storms hath bound; From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound, Torrents are hurl'd, green hills emerge, and lo, The trees with foliage, cliffs with flow'rs are crown'd; Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow.

Make wide the entrance of your thirsty soil, New spirits must i' th' mighty harvest toil; Charon's too narrow boat can ne're convey, Scarce a whole fleet will waft the souls away; Pale furies be with the vast ruin crown'd, And fill'd with blood, remangle every wound. The universal fabrick of the world, Rent and divided, to your empire's hurl'd.

So driv'n, O Poland! from thy ravaged plains, So mourning o'er thy sad and but loved remains, A houseless wretch, I wander through the world, From friends, from greatness, and from glory hurl'd!

Yet he, of empires and of men the shame, Quitting the honour of a ruler's name, Meanly at once abandon'd Rome and fame. Now this to Heaven it self does fears impart, And the mild train of quiet gods depart; Frighted with wars they quit the impious world, And leave mankind in wild confusion hurl'd.

XIV. No match hast sin save God in all the world, Men, angels it has from their stations hurl'd: Holds them in chains, as captives, in despite Of all that here below is called Might. Release, help, freedom from it none can give, But he by whom we also breathe and live. Watch therefore, keep this giant out of door Lest if once in, thou get him out no more.

There was in him a vital scorn of all, As if the worst had fall'n which could befall. He stood a stranger in this breathing world, An erring spirit from another hurl'd; A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped By choice the perils he by chance escaped. Such was Byron to common observance on his return. I recollect one night meeting him at the Opera.

The whole house was so glad that the scoundrel had been exposed that they set up siccan a roar of laughter, and thumped away at siccan a rate with their feet that down fell the place they called the gallery, all the folk in't being hurl'd topsy-turvy among the sawdust on the floor below. Then followed cries of "Murder," "Hold off me," "My ribs are in," "I'm killed," "I'm speechless."

Thy time is not yet out the devil thou servest Has not as yet deserted thee. He aids The friends who drudge for him, as the blind man Was aided by the guide, who lent his shoulder O'er rough and smooth, until he reached the brink Of the fell precipice then hurl'd him downward.

She cried, and hurl'd their quiv'ring limbs on earth. Rebellowing thunders rock the marble tow'rs, And red-tongucd lightnings shoot their arrowy show'rs: Earth yawns! the crashing ruin sinks! o'er all Death with black hands extends his mighty pall." "They are admirable lines, indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Harcourt.