r

"In- ventress "of the vocal | frame;"

زم

11

The sweet en-thusiast from her sacred store,"

En-larg'd her former | narrow | bounds,"

With | Nature's mother- wit, and | arts un

known before.

7

"Let old Tim-lotheus! yield the prize,

THERE was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising

knell !

Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street,

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet,

Ee

To chase the glowing hours with flying feetBut, hark-that heavy sound breaks in once more,

As if the clouds its echo would repeat ;

And nearer, nearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is-it is-the cannon's opening

roar !

Within a widowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell!

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since, upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron and the clattering car
Went pawing forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;

And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier o'er the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips-" the foe they
come, they come !"

And wild, and high, "the Camerons' Gathering"

rose,

The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard, and heard too, have her Saxon foes!

How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! but with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring, which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave,-alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valour, rolling on the foe

1

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms-the day
Battle's magnificently-stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when

rent

The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and

pent,

Rider and horse,-friend, foe--in one red burial

blent !

Byron.

The Burial of Sir John Moore,

Who fell at the Battle of Corunna, in Spain, ir. 1809.

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moon-beam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet nor in shroud we bound him ;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few-and short, were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,

But we steadfastly looked on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;

But nothing he'll reck if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock told the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun,
That the foe was suddenly firing.