What purpose moves him? Will he try, Thus met on every side, to fly? Wonder has struck his foemen dumb; For, toward their ranks, behold him come! ’Tis but a single step, for swift As lightning leaps from cloudy rift He backward bounds. Great God! ’tis o’er, His death-shriek sinks amid the roar Of waves that bear his mangled form Beyond the battle storm. So plunged he in the dashing tide— So fronting his fierce foes he died— And now, though peaceful years have past, And change has marred the rude, wild place, Not unremembered is the last And bravest of his race. * * * * * SONNET. BY W. W. STORY. The human voice!—oh, instrument divine, That with a subtle and mysterious art Rangest the diapason of the heart— The mighty scale of passion all is thine— Thine air-spun net around the soul doth twine, Whether the heart of thousands lifts, as one, The wild, deep anthem of its monotone, Or the soft voice of Love its silver line Threads through the spirit’s innermost recess. Thou mouldest the blank air, that round thee lies To a rare tissue of fine mysteries; Thou canst lift up the soul and canst depress— And upon Music’s balanced wings canst fly Straight through the gates of Hope and Memory. * * * * * SHAKSPEARE. BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC. NO. VI.—MACBETH.