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No banner from the lonely tower
Shall wave its blazon'd folds on high; There the tall grass and summer flower
Unmark'd shall spring and die. No more thy bard for other ear
Shall wake the harp once loved by thineHush'd be the strain thou canst not hear,
Last of a mighty line !
[It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clantonald fell, leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. His death dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. Glengarry, chief of a rival branch of the Clan Colla, started from the ranks, and, waving his bonnet round his head, cried out, “ To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for mourn
The Highlanders received a new impulse from his words, and, charging with redoubled fury, bore down all before them. - See the Quarterly Review article of “ Culloden Papers."]
THE CRUSADERS' WAR-SONG.
CHIEFTAINS, lead on ! our hearts beat high
Lead on to Salem's towers ! Who would not deem it bliss to die,
Slain in a cause like ours? The brave who sleep in soil of thine, Die not entomb'd but shrined, 0 Palestine !
Souls of the slain in holy war !
Look from your sainted rest. Tell us ye rose in Glory's car,
To mingle with the blest; Tell us how short the death-pang's power, How bright the joys of your immortal bower.
Young son of the brave ! we may weep for thee now. For well has thy death been avenged by thy band,
Prepare the pageart and the choral song,
And we have wept when soaring genius died, The pealing chimes, the blaze of festal light ! Check'd in the glory of his mid career! And hark! what rumour's gathering sound is nigh? But here our hopes were centred-all is o'er : Is it the voice of joy, that murmur deep?
All thought in this absorb'd,-she was—and is no Away! be hush'd, ye sounds of revelry !
more! Back to your homes, ye multitudes, to weep ! Weep! for the storm hath o'er us darkly pass'd, And England's royal flower is broken by the blast! We watch'd her childhood from its earliest hour,
From every word and look blest omens caught;
While that young mind developed all its power, Was it a dream? so sudden and so drcad
And rose to energies of loftiest thought. That awful fiat o'er our senses came !
On her was fix'd the patriot's ardent eyeSo loved, so blest, is that young spirit fled, One hope still bloom'd, one vista still was fair; Whose early grandeur promised years of fame? And when the tempest swept the troubled sky, Oh! when hath life possess'd, or death destroy'd She was our dayspring—all was cloudless there; More lovely hopes, more cloudlessly that smiled? And oh ! how lovely broke on England's gaze, When hath the spoiler left so dark a void? E’en through the mist and storm, the light of For all is lost-the mother and her child !
Now hath one moment darken'd future years,
Yet, mortal! midst the bitterness of tears,
Kneel, and adore th' inscrutable decree ! Announce thy coming, and thy way prepare ? Oh! while the clear perspective smiled in light, No warning voice, no harbinger was thine, Wisdom should then have temper'd hope's excess; Danger and fear seem'd past—but thou wert there! And, lost One ! when we saw thy lot so bright, Prophetic sounds along the earthquake's path We might have trembled at its loveliness. Foretell the hour of nature's awful throes; Joy is no earthly flower-nor framed to bear, And the volcano, ere it burst in wrath,
In its exotic bloom, life's cold, ungenial air.
On thee was riveted a nation's gaze,
O'er one brief hour of life a fleeting ray,
were vain? The ardent heart, the towering mind are fled, Yet shall undying love still linger with the dead.
Yet there is one who loved thee--and whose soul
With mild affections nature form'd to melt; Oh, many a bright existence we have seen
His mind hath bow'd beneath the stern control Quench'd in the glow and fulness of its prime; Of many a grief—but this shall be unfelt ! And many a cherish'd flower, ere now, hath been Years have gone by—and given his honour'd head Cropt ere its leaves were breathed upon by time. A diadem of snow; his eye is dim ; We have lost heroes in their noon of pride, Around him Heaven a solemn cloud hath spreadWhose fields of triumph gave them but a bier ; The past, the future, are a dream to him !
Yet, in the darkness of his fate, alones
All deeply, strangely, fearfully serene,
The Chastener's hand is on us--we may weep,
The sun goes down in beauty-his farewell,
Her voice hath been th’awakener—and her name
But other light is in that holy pile,
Hark! 'twas the death-bell's note! which, full
and deep, Unmix'd with aught of less majestic tonc, While all the murmurs of existence sleep, Swell’d on the stillness of the air alone ! Silent the throngs that fill the darken'd street, Silent the slumbering Thames, the lonely mart; And all is still, where countless thousands meet, Save the full throbbing of the awe-struck heart !
We mourn-but not thy fate, departed One !
1" I saw him last on this terrace proud,
Walking in health and gladness ;
Not a single look of sadness.
“ The time since he walk'd in glory thus,
To the grave till I saw him carried, Was an age of the mightiest change to us,
But to him a night unvaried.
A daughter beloved--a queen--a son
And a son's sole child had perish'd; And sad was each heart, save the only one
By which they were fondest cherislı'd."
Oh! there are griefs for nature too intenso,
1 - The bright day is done,
And we are for the dark."-SHAKSPZARE.
_"The Contrast," written under Windsor Terrace, 17th Feb. 1820, by IIorace Smith, Esq.
Its death-like torpor vanish'd-and its doom,
And thy young name, ne'er breathed in ruder tone, Thus dying, thou hast left to love and grief alone.
And such his lot whom thou hast loved and left,
Daughter of Kings ! from that high sphere look
down Where still, in hope, affection's thoughts may rise; Where dimly shines to thee that mortal crown Which earth display'd to claim thee from the skies. Look down ! and if thy spirit yet retain Memory of aught that once was fondly dear, Soothe, though unseen, the hearts that mourn in
vain, And in their hours of loneliness-be near ! Blest was thy lot e’en here--and one faint sigh, Oh! tell those hearts, hath made that blest
Yet must the days be long ere time shall steal
But thou ! thine hour of agony is o'er,
2 These stanzas were dated, Brownwhylfa, 23d Dec. 1817, and first appeared in Bluck.cood's Magazine, vol. iii. April 1818.
EXTRACT FROM QUARTERLY REVIEW. “The next volume in order consists principally of translations. It will give our readers some idea of Mrs Hemans' acquaintance with books, to enumerate the authors from whom she has chosen her subjects ;--- they are Camoens, Metastasio, Filicaja, Pastorini, Lope de Vega, Francisco Manuel, Della Casa, Cornelio Bentivoglio, Quevedo, Juan de Tarsis, Torquato and Bernardo Tasso, Petrarca, Pietro Bembo, Lorenzini, Gesner, Chaulieu, Garcilaso de Veganames embracing almost every language in which the muse has found a tongue in Europe. Many of these translations are very pretty, but it would be less interesting to select any of them for citation, as our readers might not be possessed of or acquainted with the originals. We will pass on, therefore, to the latter part of the volume, which contains much that is very pleasing and beautiful. The poem which we are about to transcribe is on a subject often treated and no wonder; it would be hard to find another which embraces so many of the elements of poetic feeling; so soothing a mixture of pleasing melancholy and pensive hope ; such an assemblage of the ideas of tender beauty, of artless playfulness, of spotless purity, of transient yet imperishable brightness, of affections wounded, but not in bitterness, of sorrows gently subdued, of eternal and undoubted happiness. We know so little of the heart of man, that when we stand by the grave of him whom we deem most excellent, the thought of death will be mingled with some awe and uncertainty; but the gracious promises of scripture leave no doubt as to the blessedness of departed infants; and when we think what they now are and what they might have been, wliat they now enjoy and what they might have suffered, what they have now gained and what they might have lost, we may, indeed, yearn to follow them; but we must be selfish indeed to wish them again constrained' to dwell in these tenements of pain and sorrow. The · Dirge of a Child,' which follows, embodies these thoughts and feelings, but in more beautiful order and language:
“No bitter tears for thee be shed," etc.-Vide page 55.
What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame
1 " The course of true love never did run smooth."