THE BATTLE.

HEAVY and solemn,

A cloudy column,

Through the green plain they marching came!
Measureless spread, like a table dread,
For the wild grim dice of the iron game.
Looks are bent on the shaking ground,
Hearts beat low with a knelling sound;
Swift by the breast that must bear the brunt,
Gallops the major along the front ;—
"Halt!"

And fettered they stand at the stark command,

And the warriors, silent, halt!

See the smoke, how the lightning is cleaving asunder!

Hark! the guns, peal on peal, how they boom in their thun

der!

From host to host, with kindling sound,
The shouting signal circles round;
Ay, shout it forth to life or death,
Freer already breathes the breath!
The war is waging, slaughter is raging,
And heavy through the reeking pall
The iron death-dice fall!

Nearer they close-foes upon foes;

66

Ready!"-from square to square it goes.

The dead men lie bathed in the weltering blood;
And the living are blent in the slippery flood,
And the feet as they reeling and sliding go,
Stumble still on the corses that sleep below.

"What! Francis !"—" Give Charlotte my last farewell." As the dying man murmurs, the thunders swell,

"I'll give-O God! are their guns so near?

Ho! comrades!-yon volley !-Look sharp to the rear!

I'll give thy Charlotte thy last farewell;

Sleep soft! where death thickest descendeth in rain,
The friend thou forsakest thy side may regain !"
Hitherward, thither ward reels the fight;
Dark and more darkly day glooms into night,
Brothers, God grant when this life is o'er,
In the life to come, that we meet once more!

Hark to the hoofs that galloping go!
The adjutants flying-

The horsemen press hard on the panting foe,
Their thunder booms, in dying-

Victory!

Terror has seized on the dastards all,
And their colors fall!

Victory!

Closed is the brunt of the glorious fight!

And the day, like a conqueror, bursts on the night.
Trumpet and fife swelling choral along,

The triumph already sweeps marching in song,
Farewell, fallen brothers; though this life be o'er,
There's another, in which we shall meet you once more!
Translated from Schiller by Bulwer.

THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL.

Ir was a starry night in June, the air was soft and still, When the minute men from Cambridge came, and gathered on the hill;

Beneath us lay the sleeping town, around us frowned the fleet; But the pulse of freemen, not of slaves, within our bosoms beat; And every heart rose high with hope, as fearlessly we said, "We will be numbered with the free, or numbered with the dead!"

"Bring out the line to mark the trench, and stretch it on the sward!"

The trench is marked, the tools are brought, we utter not a word,

But stack our guns, then fall to work with mattock and with spade,

A thousand men with sinewy arms, and not a sound was made. So still were we, the stars beneath, that scarce a whisper fell; We heard the red-coat's musket click, and heard him cry, "All's well!"

And here and there a twinkling port, reflected on the deep, In many a wavy shadow showed their sullen guns asleep. Sleep on, ye bloody, hireling crew! In careless slumber lie! The trench is growing broad and deep, the breast work broad and high.

No striplings we, but bear the arms that held the French in check,

The drum that beat at Louisburg, and thundered in Quebec!

See how the morn is breaking! the red is in the sky;
The mist is creeping from the stream that floats in silence by;
The Lively's hull looms through the fog, and they our works

have spied,

For the ruddy flash and round shot part in thunder from her side;

And the Falcon and the Cerberus make every bosom thrill, With gun and shell, and drum and bell, and boatswain's whistle shrill;

But deep and wider grows the trench as spade and mattock ply,

For we have to cope with fearful odds, and the time is drawing nigh.

Up with the pine-tree banner! Our gallant Prescott stands Amid the plunging shell and shot, and plants it with his hands;

Up with the shout! for Putnam comes, upon his reeking bay, With bloody spur and foaming bit, in haste to join the fray; And Pomeroy, with his snow-white hairs, and face all flush and sweat,

Unscathed by French and Indian, wears a youthful glory yet.

Hark! from the town a trumpet! the barges at the wharf Are crowded with the living freight, and now they're pushing off;

With clash and glitter, trump and drum, in all its bright

array,

Behold the splendid sacrifice move slowly o'er the bay!

And still and still the barges fill, and still across the deep, Like thunder-clouds along the sky, the hostile transports

sweep;

And now they're forming at the Point, and now the lines ad

vance;

We see beneath the sultry sun their polished bayonets glance; We hear a-near the throbbing drum, the bugle challenge ring:

Quick bursts, and loud, the flashing cloud, and rolls from wing to wing.

But on the height our bulwark stands, tremendous in its gloom,

As sullen as a tropic sky, and silent as a tomb!

And so we waited till we saw, at scarce ten rifles' length, The old vindictive Saxon spite in all its stubborn strength;When sudden, flash on flash, around the jagged ramparts burst From every gun the livid light, upon the foe accursed!

Then quailed a monarch's might before a free-born people's

ire;

Then drank the sword the veteran's life, where swept the yeoman's fire;

Then, staggered by the shot, we saw their serried columns reel,

And fall, as falls the bearded grain beneath the reaper's steel! And then arose a mighty shout, that might have waked the dead,

"Hurrah! they run-the field is won! Hurrah! the foe is fled!"

And every man has dropped his gun to clutch a neighbor's hand,

As his heart kept praying all the time for home and native land.

Thrice on that day we stood the shock of thrice ten thousand foes,

And thrice that day within our lines the shout of victory rose;

And though our swift fire slackened then, and, reddening in the skies,

We saw from Charlestown's roofs and walls the flaming col

umns rise,

Yet while we had a cartridge left, we still maintained the fight,

Nor gained the foe one foot of ground upon that blood-stained height.

What though for us no laurels bloom, nor o'er the nameless brave

No sculptured trophy, scroll, nor hatch, records a warrior's grave?

What though the day to us was lost? Upon the deathless page

The everlasting charter stands, for every land and age!
For man hath broke his felon bonds and cast them in the dust,
And claimed his heritage divine, and justified his trust;
While through his rifted prison-bars the hues of freedom pour,
O'er every nation, race, and clime, on every sea and shore,
Such glories as the patriarch viewed, when, 'mid the darkest
skies,

He saw above the ruined world the bow of promise rise!
Frederick S. Cozzens.

THE KNIGHT'S TOAST.

THE feast is o'er! Now brimming wine
In lordly cup is seen to shine
Before each eager guest;

And silence fills the crowded hall,
As deep as when the herald's call
Thrills in the loyal breast.

Then up arose the noble host,
And smiling cried: "A toast! a toast!
To all our ladies fair!
Here before all, I pledge the name

Of Staunton's proud and beauteous dame,-
The Ladye Gundamere!"

Then to his feet each gallant sprung
And joyous was the shout that rung,
As Stanley gave the word;
And every cup was raised on high,
Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry,
Till Stanley's voice was heard.

Enough, enough," he smiling said,
And lowly bent his haughty head;
"That all may have their due,
Now each in turn, must play his part,
And pledge the lady of his heart,
Like gallant knight and true!"

Then one by one, each guest sprang up,
And drained in turn the brimming cup,
And named the loved one's name;
And each, as hand on high he raised,
His lady's grace or beauty praised,
Her constancy and fame.

"Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise;
On him are fixed those countless eyes;-
A gallant knight is he;
Envied by some, admired by all,
Far famed in lady's bower, and hall,-
The flower of chivalry.