That soul shall mourn itself too late,
Its winged nature gone,
Degraded from its higher state,
To that it feeds upon.

CORNELIUS NEALE.

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM, OR THE

PRICE OF A VICTORY.

It was a summer evening :

Old Kaspar's work was done;
And he before the cottage door,
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green,
His little grandchild, Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round,

That he beside the rivulet,

In playing there had found;

She ran to ask what he had found,

That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh,

"Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory.

"I find them in my garden; for There's many here-about; And often when I go to plough,

The plowshare turns them out: For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory."

"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes.

"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they killed each other for."

"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"That put the French to rout;
But what they killed each other for,
I could not well make out.
But every body said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.

My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;

They burnt his dwelling to the ground,

And he was forced to fly :

So with a wife and child he fled,

And knew not where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round They wasted far and wide;

And many a wretched mother then,

And new-born infant died.

But things like that you know must be
At every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun.

But things like that you know must be

After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won,

66

And our great prince Eugene."

Why 'twas a very wicked thing,"

Said little Wilhelmine.

Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, "It was a famous victory.

"And every body praised the Duke,

Who this great fight did win." "But what good came of it at last?

Quoth little Peterkin.

"Why, that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory."

SOUTHEY.

THE DRUM.

I HATE the drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round;
To thoughtless youths it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields,
To sell their liberty for charms

Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms;
And when Ambition's voice commands,
To march, and fight, and fall in foreign lands.

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round;
To me it talks of ravaged plains,
And burning towns, and ruined swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widow's tears, and orphan's moans;
All, all that misery and sin bestow
To fill the catalogue of human woe.

J. SCOTT.

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 wrapped and coated well, And yet we were a-cold.

We met an old, bareheaded man,
His locks were few and white;
I asked 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 barefooted child,
And she begged both loud and bold;

I asked her what she did abroad,
When the wind it blew so cold.

She said her poor father at home
Was then lying sick in bed;
And therefore it was 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.