THE BATTLE OF PULTOWA.

ON Vorska's glittering waves
The morning sun-beams play;
Pultowa's walls are throng'd
With eager multitudes :
Athwart the dusty vale

They strain their aching eyes,
Where to the fight he moves

The conqueror Charles, the iron-hearted Swede.]

Him famine hath not tamed
The tamer of the brave;
Him winter hath not quell'd,

When man by man his veteran troops sunk down,
Frozen to their endless sleep,

He held undaunted on;
Him pain hath not subdued,

What though he mounts not now

The fiery steed of war,

Borne on a litter to the fight he goes.

Go, iron-hearted king!
Full of thy former fame.

Think how the humbled Dane
Crouch'd to thy victor sword;
Think how the wretched Pole
Resign'd his conquer'd crown;
Go iron-hearted king!

Let Narva's glory swell thy haughty breast-
The death-day of thy glory, Charles, hath dawn'd;
Proud Swede, the sun hath risen

That on thy shame shall set!

Now bend thine head from heaven,
Now Patkul be revenged!
For o'er that bloody Swede
Ruin hath rais'd his arm-

For ere the night descends

His veteran host subdued,

His laurels blasted to revive no mor

He flies before the foe!

Long years of hope deceived
That conquered Swede must prove,
Patkul thou art avenged!
Long years of idleness

That restless soul must bear,
Patkul thou art avenged!

The despot's savage anger took thy life,
Thy death has stabb'd his fame.

ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S DAY.

THE night is come, no fears disturb
The dreams of innocence;

They trust in kingly faith and kingly oaths,
They sleep-alas! they sleep!

Go to the palace wouldst thou know
How hideous night can be ;

Eye is not closed in those accursed walls,

Nor heart at quiet there.

The monarch from the window leans,
He listens to the night,

And with a horrible and eager hope
Awaits the midnight bell.

Oh, he has hell within him now!

God, always art thou just!

For innocence can never know such pangs

As pierce successful guilt.

He looks abroad and all is still.

Hark! now the midnight bell

Sounds through the silence of the night alone;
And now the signal gun!

Thy hand is on him, righteous God!
He hears the frantic shriek,

He hears the glorying yells of massacre,
And he repents too late.

He hears the murderer's savage shout,
He hears the groan of death;

In vain they fly,-soldiers defenceless now,
Women, old men, and babes.

Righteous and just art thou, O God!
For at his dying hour

Those shrieks and groans re-echoed in his ear
He heard that murderous yell!

They throng'd around his midnight couch
The phantoms of the slain,-

It preyed like poison on his powers of life,—
Righteous art thou, O God!

Spirits who suffered at that hour
For freedom and for faith,

Ye saw your country bent beneath the yoke,
Her faith and freedom crush'd.

And like a giant from his sleep
Ye saw when France awoke;

Ye saw the people burst their double chain,
And ye had joy in heaven.

THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR.

AND wherefore do the poor complain ?
The rich man asked of me;-
Come walk abroad with me, I said,
And I will answer thee.

"Twas evening and the frozen streets
Were cheerless to behold,
And we were wrapt and coated well,
And yet we were a-cold.

We met an old bare-headed man,
His locks were few and white,
I ask'd him what he did abroad
In that cold winter's night:

"Twas bitter keen, indeed, he said,
But at home no fire had he,
And therefore he had come abroad
To ask for charity.

We met a young bare-footed child,
And she begg'd loud and bold,
I ask'd her what she did abroad
When the wind it blew so cold;

She said her father was at home,
And he lay sick in bed,

And therefore was it she was sent
Abroad to beg for bread.

We saw a woman sitting down
Upon a stone to rest,
She had a baby at her back

And another at her breast;

I ask'd her why she loiter'd there,

When the night-wind was so chill ;She turn'd her head and bade the child That scream'd behind be still.

She told us that her husband served
A soldier, far away,

And therefore to her parish she
Was begging back her way.

We met a girl, her dress was loose,
And sunken was her eye,
Who with the wanton's hollow voice
Address'd the passers by;

I ask'd her what there was in guilt
That could her heart allure
To shame, disease, and late remorse?
She answer'd, she was poor.

I turn'd me to the rich man then,
For silently stood he,-

You ask'd me why the poor complain,

And these have answer'd thee!

TO A BEE.

THOU wert out betimes, thou busy busy bee!
As abroad I took my early way,
Before the cow from her resting place
Had risen up and left her trace
On the meadow, with dew so gray,

I saw thee, thou busy busy bee.

Thou wert working late, thou busy busy bee!
After the fall of the cistus flower,

When the primrose-tree blossom was ready to burst,

I heard thee last, as I saw thee first;

In the silence of the evening hour,

I heard thee, thou busy busy bee.

Thou art a miser, thou busy busy bee!
Late and early at employ;

Still on thy golden stores intent,

Thy summer in heaping and hoarding is spent,
What thy winter will never enjoy;

Wise lesson this for me, thou busy busy bee!

Little dost thou think, thou busy busy bee!
What is the end of thy toil.

When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone
And all thy work for the year is done,
Thy master comes for the spoil.
Woe then for thee, thou busy busy bee!

METRICAL LETTER.

WRITTEN FROM LONDON.

MARGARET! my cousin,-nay you must not smile,
I love the homely and familiar phrase;
And I will call thee cousin Margaret,

However quaint amid the measured line,

The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill
When delicate tongues disclaim old term of kin,
Sirring and madaming as civilly

As if the road between the heart and lips

A A