And the swift charger sweep, Trampling thy place of sleep- Why?-Ask the true heart why Unto this harvest ground Some for that stirring sound, Some for the stormy play, And joy of strife, And some to fling away But thou, pale sleeper, thou, And the rich locks, whose glow Only one thought, one power, So through the tempest's hour Only the true, the strong, MAN AND WOMAN. -Women act their parts When they do make their ordered houses know them. The city; yea, make the great world aware WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb, A banner from its flashing spear A haughty heart and kingly glance- A lofty place where leaders sate In festive halls a chair of state, When the blood-red wine was pour'd; A name that drew a prouder tone Knowles, -Surely these things were all thine own; Woman! whose sculptur'd form at rest He woo'd a bright and burning star; The heart sick listening while his steed The pang-but when did Fame take heed Thy silent and secluded hours, While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers, Thy weeping midnight prayers for him A still sad life was thine!-long years, . OWAIN GLYNDWR'S WAR SONG. SAW ye the blazing star? The heavens look down on Freedom's war, And light her torch on high: Bright on the dragon-crest It tells that glory's wing shall rest, And swell the rushing mountain air, At the dead hour of night, Red shone th' eternal snows, Oh! eagles of the battles, rise! The hope of Gwynedd wakes- It is your banner in the skies, Thro' each dark cloud that breaks, And mantles with triumphal dyes, A sound is on the breeze, A murmur, as of swelling seas! The Saxon's on his way! Lo! spear, and shield, and lance, From Deva's waves, with lightning glance, Reflected to the day. But who the torrent-wave compels A conqueror's chains to bear? Let those who wake the soul that dwells The greenest and the loveliest dells Of us they told the seers And monarch-bards of elder years, A spell of might and mystery reigns, The march of ages pass'd away, ON THE TOMB OF MADAME LANGHANS. "To a mysteriously consorted pair, This place is consecrate; to death and life, Wordsworth. How many hopes were borne upon thy bier, |