A sort of hostile transaction, very necessary to keep the world going, but by no means a sinecure to the parties concerned.

Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought?

But stories somehow lengthen when begun.

A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.

We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.

No more we meet in yonder bowers Absence has made me prone to roving; But older, firmer hearts than ours, Have found monotony in loving.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!