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And, that my purpose soon may find its end,
This my good king must I unmannerly
Push from his seat, and fill myself the chair.-
Welcome, thou glittering mark of royalty!
And with thy pleasing, yet oppressive weight,
Encircle fast this my determined brow.
Yet soft! ere I proceed let caution guide me:
For though the trunk and body of the tree
Be thus within my gripe, still do I fear

Those boughs which stand so near and close allied,
That will, ere long, yield seeds for dire revenge,
Then since my soul e'en murder must commit,
To gratify my thirst for royalty,

Why should I play the child? or like a niggard,
By sparing, mar and damn my cause for ever?
No! as the blow strikes one, all three must fall!
Then shall I, giant-like, and void of dread,
Uprear my royal and encircled brow,
And in the face of the Omnipotent,
Bid bold defiance.-

This my determination, then, shall be,
So, firm as adamant the end I'll see.

CCXCV. T. CAMPBELL, 1777-1844.

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,

And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave!
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.


Warsaw's last champion from her height survey'd,
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,—
Oh! Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save!--
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high!
And swear for her to live!-with her to die!

He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd
His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd;
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm;
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
Revenge, or death,—the watch-word and reply;
Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin tolì d their last alarm!

In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!
From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew :-

Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time,
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime;
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!

Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear,
Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career;-
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And freedom shriek'd-as Kosciusko fell!


All wordly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
Its immortality!
I saw a vision in my sleep,

That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulph of Time!

I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!

Some had expired in fight,--the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;
In plague and famine some!

Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb!

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood
With dauntless words and high,

That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm pass'd by,

Saying, "We are twins in death, proud Sun,
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis Mercy bids thee go.

For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,

That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill,

And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will;-

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrownéd king of day:
For all those trophied arts

And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Heal'd not a passion or a pang
Entail'd on human hearts.
Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again.

Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.

Ev'n I am weary, in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,-
The majesty of Darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!

This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recall'd to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robb'd the grave of Victory,-
And took the sting from Death!

Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up
On Nature's awful waste

To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall taste—
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race
On Earth's sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his immortality,

Or shake his trust in God!"

CCXCVI. HON. W. HERBERT, 1778-1847.


Yestreen the mountain's rugged brow
Was mantled o'er with dreary snow;
The sun set red behind the hill,
And every breath of wind was still;
But ere he rose, the southern blast
A veil o'er heaven's blue arch had cast;
Thick rolled the clouds, and genial rain
Poured the wide deluge o'er the plain.
Fair glens and verdant vales appear,
And warmth awakes the budding year.
O'tis the touch of fairy hand

That wakes the spring of northern land!
It warms not there by slow degrees,
With changeful pulse, the uncertain breeze,
But sudden on the wondering sight
Bursts forth the beam of living light,
And instant verdure springs around,
And magic flowers bedeck the ground.
Returned from regions far away,
The red-winged throstle pours his lay;
The soaring snipe salutes the spring,
While the breeze whistles through his wing;
And, as he hails the melting snows,
The heathcock claps his wings and crows.

CCXCVII. T. MOORE, 1779-1852.
'Twas when the world was in its prime,
When the fresh stars had just begun

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