On yonder lone and lovely steep
The sculptor's art, the builder's power,
The landmark o'er the soldier's sleep,
Have reared a lofty funeral tower;
There it shall stand until the river
That rolls beneath shall cease to flow;
Aye, till the hill itself shall quiver
With nature's last convulsive throe.
Upon that column's marble base,
Its shafts that soar into the sky,
There still is room enough to trace
The list of millions yet to die.
And I would cover all its heighth
And breadth, before the hour of shame,
Till space should even fail to write
Even the initials of a name.
Nay, I would haste to swell the ranks,
Direct the fire, or lead the way,
While battle swept the rifted ranks,
And bore the serried lines away;
Fall, bleeding, in the doubtful strife,
Beneath the motto of my sires,
And draw the latest breath of life
Before that Union flag expires.
THE clock strikes Four!
Round the debtors' door
Are gathered a couple of thousand or more;
As many await
At the press-yard gate,
Till slowly its folding-doors open; and straight
The mob divides; and between their ranks
A wagon comes loaded with posts and planks.
The clock strikes Five!
The sheriffs arrive,
And the crowd is so great that the street seems alive.
Sweetly, oh! sweetly, the morning breaks.
With roseate streaks,
Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks;
Seemed as that mild and clear blue sky
Smiled upon all things far and nigh,—
All, save the wretch condemned to die!
Alack! that ever so fair a sun
As that which its course has now begun,
Should rise on such scenes of misery.
Should gild with rays so light and free
That dismal, dark-frowning gallows-tree!
And hark! a sound comes big with fate,
The clock from St. Sepulchre's tower strikes-Eight!
List to that low funeral bell;
It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell!
And see! from forth that opening door
They come; he steps the threshold o'er
Who never shall tread upon threshold more.
God! 'tis a fearsome thing to see
That pale man's mute agony;
The glare of that wild despairing eye,
Now bent on the crowd, now turned to the sky,
As though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear,
The path of the spirit's unknown career;
Those pinioned arms, those hands that ne'er
Shall be lifted again—not even in prayer;
That heaving chest!-Enough, 'tis done !—
The bolt has fallen !-The spirit is gone-
For weal or for woe is known but to One!
Oh! 'twas a fearsome sight! Ah, me!
A deed to shudder at,-not to see.
THE CHARGE AT WATERLOO.
ON came the whirlwind-like the last
But fiercest sweep of tempest blast;
On came the whirlwind-steel-gleams broke
Like lightning through the rolling smoke;
The war was waked anew.
Three hundred cannon-mouths roared loud,
And from their throats, with flash and cloud,
Their showers of iron threw.
Beneath their fire, in full career,
Rushed on the ponderous cuirassier,
The lancer couched his ruthless spear,
And, hurrying as to havoc near,
The cohorts' eagles flew.
In one dark torrent, broad and strong,
The advancing onset rolled along,
Forth harbingered by fierce acclaim,
That from the shroud of smoke and flame,
Pealed wildly the imperial name.
But on the British heart were lost
The terrors of the charging host;
For not an eye the storm that viewed
Changed its proud glance of fortitude;
Nor was one forward footstep stayed,
As dropped the dying and the dead."
Fast as their ranks the thunder tear,
Fast they renewed each serried square!
And on the wounded and the slain
Closed their diminished files again;
Till from their lines scarce spears' lengths three,
Emerging from the smoke they see
Helmet and plume, and panoply—
Then waked their fire at once!
Each musketeer's revolving knell
As fast, as regularly fell,
As when they practise to display
Their discipline on festal day.
Then down went helm and lance,
Down went the eagle-banners sent,
Down reeling steeds and riders went,
Corselets were pierced and pennons rent;
And, to augment the fray,
Wheeled full against their staggering flanks,
The English horsemen's foaming ranks
Forced their resistless way.
Then to the musket-knell succeeds
The clash of swords, the neigh of steeds;
As plies the smith his clanging trade,
Against the cuirass rang the blade;
And while amid their close array
The well-served cannon rent their way,
And while amid their scattered band
Raged the fierce rider's bloody brand,
Recoiled in common rout and fear
Lancer and guard and cuirassier,
Horsemen and foot-a mingled host-
Their leaders fallen, their standards lost.
"YOUR horse is faint, my King-my Lord! your gallant horse is sick
His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye
the film is Mount, mount on mine, oh, mount apace, I pray thee, mount and fly!
Or in my arms I'll lift your grace—their trampling hoofs are nigh!
"My King-my King! you're wounded sore-the blood runs from your feet;
But only lay a hand before, and I'll lift you to your seat; Mount, Juan, for they gather fast!-I hear their coming cryMount, mount, and ride for jeopardy—I'll save you though I die!
"Stand, noble steed! this hour of need--be gentle as a lamb; I'll kiss the foam from off thy mouth-thy master dear I amMount, Juan, mount; whate'er betide, away the bridle fling, And plunge the rowels in his side. My horse shall save my King!
"Nay, never speak; my sires, Lord King, received their land from yours,
And joyfully their blood shall spring, so be it thine secures : If I should fly, and thou, my King, be found among the dead, How could I stand 'mong gentlemen, such scorn on my gray head?
"Castile's proud dames shall never point the finger of disdain, And say there's ONE that ran away when our good lords were slain!
I leave Diego in your care-you'll fill his father's place; Strike, strike the spur, and never spare-God's blessing on your grace!"
So spake the brave Montanez, Butrago's lord was he;
And turned him to the coming host in steadfastness and glee;
He flung himself among them, as they came down the hill-
He died, God wot! but not before his sword had drunk its
HERMINIUS AND MAMILIUS.
RIGHT glad were all the Romans
Who, in that hour of dread,
Against great odds bare up the war
Around Valerius dead,
When from the south the cheering
Rose with a mighty swell;
"Herminius comes, Herminius,
Who kept the bridge so well!"
Mamilius spied Herminius,
And dashed across the way.
"Herminius! I have sought thee
Through many a bloody day.
One of us two, Herminius,
Shall never more go home,
I will lay on for Tusculum,
And lay thou on for Rome!"
All round them paused the battle,
While met in mortal fray'
The Roman and the Tusculan,
The horses black and gray.
Herminius smote Mamilius
Through breast-plate and through breast;
And fast flowed out the purple blood
Over the purple vest.
Mamilius smote Herminius
Through head-piece and through head; And side by side those chiefs of pride Together fell down dead.
Down fell they dead together
In a great lake of gore;
And still stood all who saw them fall
While men might count a score.
Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
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