What, you who passed the Danube and foe defended Lech,

Whose march the Elbe, nor rapid Rhine, nor Baltic's self could check,
To whom storm, battle, escallade, no danger came amiss;
Victors of Leipsic, shrink you now to cross a ditch like this?

You pause-ere, branding your fair fame with damning shame, you fly,
Of your old valour keep enough to see Gustavus die!

Then, false to all, your God, your king, your native land, your name,
Turn, dastards, fly!-I go to die. Life is well lost for fame."

Hold, Sire! for mercy's sake throw not your precious life away,
Though hell itself confronted us, on, on we'd force our way,

Though from yon trench their shot like hail comes pouring thick and fast, If mowed not down beneath its fire we fall, it shall be past."

"Forward-my noble Scots, my Swedes! I thought I ne'er should see
The hour when you, my bravest, would blench to follow me."

'Mid such a roar as lakes forth pour when bursting from their banks,
Across the plain our king again leads on our charging ranks.
With furious speed he takes the lead, nor, if we follow, heeds;
Alone he'd go against the foe-He's struck, Oh God! he bleeds.

My men, why stay? "Tis nought. Away-On-Cousin, faint I grow,

I feel my senses failing-hence, quick, lead me-let us go.

I would not that my Swedes should see me thus: pass not too near,

It might dismay them. Who is he who comes-yon cavalier?"

"Ha! Is it thou, Sir King? I vow long have I sought for thee."

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Fly, friends; that ball has sped home, all is over now with me."

Hope, Sire-ring in your king. Now, men, safe guard him 'mid the fray;
On come their cuirassiers-his charger rears-he's flung-Away!

All's lost, my Lord Saxe-Weimar: If victory's ours 'tis vain.
Alas! why do I live to say our noble king is slain!

Fighting he fell-a mangled corpse we bore him from the plain;
Ah, never, never will he lead our fiery charge again!

I saw his green plume dancing high, as onward came the foe,
We strove to stem the tide of war-this sword-stroke laid me low.
The gallant ring that hemmed him in, o'erborne, at last gave way,
Victors and vanquished, mingled, swept afar from where I lay.
I raised my head from 'mid the dead-the plain around was clear,
None but the young page Lübeling unwounded lingered near.

He leaped to earth beside the king, "Mount, mount, my liege, and fly!”
Gustavus raised his hands, "Good youth, my hour is come to die!
Mount and begone! I may not. To Bernhard hie with speed,
Say victory's won if on once more my gallant Swedes he lead.
The foe are broke-tell him with joy Gustavus welcomes death,
If on his ear their charging cheer shall burst ere fleet his breath."

"It shall ne'er be said that Lübeling fled and left his king to die,
If on this plain my king lie slain by him his page shall lie;

Yon Croats mark us; God! they come-mount, mount! his strength is gone. Would I could lift him-ah, as well might try a babe unborn."

With desperate force upon his horse he strives the king to place,

"Tis vain, from far, with wild hurrah, come on with lightning pace

The barbarous foes-they round them close. I listened, "Who," they said, "Is the wounded man?" Then proudly the great king raised his headHis glazing eye flashed fire, and high, unfaltering, was his voice"The king am I, and now to die I grieve not, but rejoice.

For I seal with my blood the faith that is good, more dear than life to me,

And the Germans shall be henceforward as free as winds or the chainless

sea."

Five swords are bare, they flash through air, the Lion King lies low;
Curse on each sword that struck a stroke-each arm that dealt a blow.
Now, as I live, by Heavens I'd give my life, my very soul,

To meet this hour the dogs with power to hurl to Hell the whole.

I turned my face to earth, I strove to fly the bloody scene,

'Twas vain, I shuddering, heard him gasp, "My God, my God, my Queen!"

With hurried tread the butchers fled, then all was still around,
But soon again the hollow plain rang with the coming sound,
Of trampling horse; I looked, Piccolomini there I saw ;
His lip a smile was curling, while he bent his dead foe o'er.
He stood not long, for swift along on like a rushing flame,
Stalhouse and the Steinbockers against them charging came.

They met, they mingled-man to man, and hand to hand they fought;
The mail loud rang with the swords' keen clang-for quarter neither
sought,

Nor till a ring around the king heaped of the foe was lying

Did they give way-from where he lay we moved the dead and dying;

We cloaked him o'er, and weeping bore his gory corpse away.

Ah! long and deep shall Sweden weep for him who fell to-day.

"This horseman saw Gustavus die-his fall is known to few,

tell

Shall we conceal his death, and charge? Kniphausen, what say you ?”
"Saxe-Weimar, if the king be dead, let us avoid defeat ;
Reform the men, in order then safe from the field retreat."
Kniphausen, no; if e'er I quit this plain till fame may
To future times that ne'er was king who fell avenged so well,
May I be but remembered by this ever-damning shame,
And may the curse of ages still lie heavy on my name!
Lord Duke, my noble general, 'twere useless, all and vain
To bid my comrades, unavenged, depart the battle plain;
For, as in quest of you but now I fiercely spurring came,

A sight shot through our broken ranks that lit a withering flame

In every soul within our host, that floods of blood alone

This day will quench-that sight hath struck each Swedish heart to stone.
It was the great king's charger-well all knew the gallant white-

That, masterless, with gory hoof, the dying spurned in flight :
All bloody were his housings, and all red his dangling rein,
And blood was on his snowy sides, and on his streaming mane.

Like mountain torrents' wintry foam along he wildly burst,
And in a moment, as men's eyes that passing horror curst,
Dread silence on the battle fell; nor, for a time, was heard

From those who through the throng tracked on the flying steed a word;
Nor dared they in that instant once to read in others' eyes
The fearful truth that none recoiled-not even to surmise;

But, for a moment, stillness reigned. Then rose as wild a yell

As ever nameless agony tore from the damned in hell.

I heard around me curses, such as froze my heart's blood, pour;
From lips that never uttered aught but holy prayers before;

I saw down iron cheeks the tears of bitter anguish rain,

From eyes that ne'er had wept before, and ne'er will weep again.
Think not the word of man can stem the scorching lava flood

Of quenchless fire that rages in your Swedes. They must have blood

They need no leaders-vengeance well will lead them on to sate

Their savage fury-fear in all is trodden out by hate.

Hark! hear you not their rising shouts? Your words will be as wind, To stay them-mad to slay-to all but ruthless fury blind.

See! rank on rank, how forward fast their mighty surges pour-
All other stormy sounds are hushed in their tempestuous roar.
Hurrah! hurrah! to vengeance swift that nought of pity knows
We charging go, and woe betide the dogs that call us foes.

Avenge your king! God with us "bursts forth in one wild cry; "Jesu Maria-Ferdinand and Rome," the foe reply:

As clouds before the howling winds are swept across the sky,
Scattered before our charging host, the foe, fast falling, fly.

The trench we leap-on, on we sweep, like Autumn's shrieking wind-
The flying tread our onward path, the dead lie strewn behind.
"Avenge, avenge your king-spare none !" a thousand voices cry-
Hoarse echoing them, "Avenge your king" a thousand tongues reply!
Praise to the God of Battles! See, all, breaking, join the rout.
Victory! Hurrah! the day is ours! What means that bursting shout?
What cuirassiers are yon, whose arms bright in the sunlight gleam?
That like a torrent onward dash? By Heavens, 'tis Pappenheim !
He comes, his iron ranks are hurled against our charging left;
They burst away, their foaming horse our serried line have cleft.

See! Wallenstein is rallying the routed foe once more:
He leads them on! towards us fast rolls on the tide of war.
Half I believe the tale they tell a charmed life must he bear,
For round him, see! a very storm of bullets sing through air.
Thrice have I, with my own eyes, seen his breast receive a ball!
Yet, calmly there, unharmed, he rides; though round him men fast fall!
Well, would I that my own good sword might prove this boasted charm;
I'd trust in stars, and saints, and all, if he should 'scape this arm.
At them-they come-upon them men! By Heaven they bear us back!
Defend the trench-stand firm; they blench! The slain well tell our track.
Soon shall we on once more-us yet I trow success will crown.
They wait our onset but to fly, and Pappenheim is down.
Darkness comes on, before it fast flies the lingering light,
Victory, if ours, must soon be won, for quickly 'twill be night.

Hurrah! Duke Bernhard forms our line, again the trench is past.
They stay not our approach-they fly, and victory's ours at last.
Hurrah! the Battle's won! yet ah! our joy is drowned in woe.
I would rejoice. Alas, my voice will wail for him who's low.
What now is victory to us? What now to us is fame?
We little prize them-they were won to twine around his name.
And yet why mourn I? Died he not as heroes long to die?
Shall not his fame endure as long as aught beneath the sky?
Yes, till eternal space shall know the rolling sun no more-
Each race that treads the Earth he trod, shall his great name adore!
All coming times shall hymn his praise, shall of his glory tell;
Who, battling for the rights of man, to-day at Lützen fell.

His name shall fill the mouths of men, shall in their memories dwell;
Alas! a name alone remains of him we loved so well!

W. C. B.

THE COMMON COUNCILMAN.

[Continued from page 230.]

Weeks and months had rapidly rolled away, and the cry of "walnuts" and "hot potatoes reminded the citizens of London that November had arrived-that happy season of yellow fogs, Guy Fawkes's, and Lord Mayor's shows-when a splendid embossed card made its appearance at the habitation of Mr. Peter Pancake, expressing the very great happiness the newly-elected Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress would experience in entertaining Peter Pancake, Esq., and lady, at the Guildhall, on the 9th of that month. Mr. Pancake forthwith purchased for himself a new patent ventilating peruke, and treated his lady to a handsome yellow satin dress, which he insisted should be made with short sleeves after the fashion of Mrs. Ninepin's, much to the discomfort of dear Mrs. P., who never in her life had worn short sleeves-excepting on washing days-and who felt positively assured she should catch" neither more nor less than the rheumatiz” in her arms. Mr. Pancake was in ecstasies at his wife's appearance-who was really a very pretty woman, though approaching somewhat to the corpulent (I beg the lady's pardon, I mean embonpoint). The coach was at the door, and Mr. and Mrs. Pancake stopped to take one more peep at the chimney-glass. Surely never were couple so proud and so happy! Mr. P. chuckled, Mrs. P. smiled. Mr. P. hoped his wife would imitate Mrs. Ninepin and behave like a lady, and Mrs. P. hoped her husband wouldn't take more than was good for him, or spill his soup on his ten-guinea robes. To complete their joy, a letter had that morning arrived from their hopeful son, stating his very great success in his College studies, which letter was immediately forwarded to the Court of Aldermen, accompanied by a short note from Mr. Pancake, requesting that "honourable Court" to use its influence in getting his son appointed Chaplain to the next Lord Mayor, as he understood that a person of " great learning and piety was required to fill that important office." But as it will no doubt be satisfactory to some of my readers to decide for themselves upon the youth's qualifications, I will faithfully transcribe his dutiful epistle. "Brazen-Nose College, Oxford.

"My dear Pa,-Knowing your anxiety on my behalf, I hasten to send you the first intimation of the high honours to which I have attained. After a severe contest, the "Plucky honours" were awarded me; that is, I was pluckt. You may therefore put P. T. after my name, which is a very honourable title, and many of the Aldermen of your great City have taken the same degree. Upon second thoughts, I would rather you did not use my title just yet, as it might look like ostentation; and do not tell any one of it for the same reason. Just tip us £50 for the expenses. I am going to describe a circle on a given finite straight line at Ascot next Summer, when I shall, from the given point Ascot, draw a straight line to your hospitable mansion: we three shall then form what is called in mathematics an acute-angled triangle.

"Believe me, dear Pap-Da, yours, demonstratively,
"PETER SECUNDUS.

"N.B. I had almost forgotten to say, that in consideration of my

high merit and hard reading, which has somewhat impaired my health, the heads of my College have recommended me to take a rustic trip; I shall therefore follow their advice, and ruralize for a few months.-Q. E. D.

“Pietas erga parens sum fundamentum omnis virtus."

"Isn't it wonderful!" exclaimed Mr. Pancake, when he had finished reading this elegant effusion.

"Oh, heavenly!" responded his lady; "and the beautiful bit of foreign language at the bottom'; I daresay that means how nice the sausages were that I sent him last week.”

The bells were ringing merrily, and the Tower guns bellowed through the air; Coaches and Cabs were flying about the City as if some mighty electric shock had set the whole metropolis in motion. The City Police were called out to guard the avenues leading to Guildhall; shops were shut; flags waving; thousands of men, women, and children strolling through the streets; and thousands of visages of every shape, size, and expression thrust themselves through open windows, presenting the comical appearance of each man, woman, or child, sitting upon another one's shoulder in true Bedouin Arab style. All was bustle and commotion; the Lord Mayor and the ex-Lord Mayor (the former of course being applauded by the mob, and the latter hissed) had paraded through the City with all their retinue of trumpeters, tipsy soldiers, and ragamuffins; accompanied also by the imposing effigies of the gigantic Gog and Magog, who tottered and fell at the door of every gin-palace by which they had to passtheir oblivious occupants being led by instinct to make a sudden halt at those places to which they had been in the habit of resorting.

The interior of the Guildhall was brilliantly illuminated; banners of by-gone days hung listlessly from the flaming walls, and displayed in glorious shades of purple and gold the arms of defunct Lord Mayors and Aldermen who had once graced that Hall. Heroes and sages of past centuries looked on the scene in silent pensiveness; kings peered through their visors, and seemed to be wondering what all the bustle and disturbance could be about. The original Gog and Magog grinned horribly upon the groaning tables before them, and seemed to be reminded of those days when they would treat with contempt the paltry saddles of mutton and barons of beef, and would prefer making a meal from the substantial-looking waiters who arranged them. The military band was in full operation, the company was fast arriving, and the inimitable Mr. Toole, with his unearthly lungs, was announcing the visitors' names as they entered, when the door opened, and " Peter Pancake, Esquire, and lady," made their appearance. Our worthy friends stood stock still, looking as terrified as if they had each seen a ghost, till being admonished by the Usher that it was necessary for them to "move on," they commenced a series of bowing and curtsying, to the infinite amusement of the bystanders.

"Oh! gracious me!" at length murmured Mrs. P. "It's heaven upon earth!"

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Yes," replied Mr. P.," and 'let none presume to wear an undeserved dignity. He that out-lives this day, and comes home safe, will stand