Fights he less brave through recollected bliss,
With step retreating, or with sword remiss?
Ah no! remembered home's the warrior's charm,
Speed to his sword, and vigor to his arm;
For this he supplicates the Power afar,
Fronts the steeled foe, and mingles in the war!
The cannon's hushed!-nor drums, nor clarion sound; Helmet and hauberk gleam upon the ground; Horseman and horse lie weltering in their gore; Patriots are dead, and heroes dare no more; While solemnly the moonlight shrouds the plain, And lights the lurid features of the slain!
And see! on this rent mound, where daisies sprung,
A battle-steed beneath his rider flung :-
Oh! never more he'll rear with fierce delight,
Roll his red eye, and rally for the fight!
Pale on his bleeding breast the warrior lies,
While, from his ruffled lids the white-swelled eyes
Ghastly and grimly stare upon the skies!
Afar, with bosom bared unto the breeze,
White lips, and glaring eyes, and shivering knees,
A widow o'er her martyred soldier moans,
Loading the night-wind with delirious groans;
Her blue-eyed babe, unconscious orphan he,
While sweetly prattling in his cherub glee,
Leers on his lifeless sire with infant-wile,
And plays and plucks him for a parent's smile.
But who, upon the battle-wasted plain,
Shall count the faint, the gasping, and the slain ?—
Angel of Mercy! ere the blood-fount chill,
And the brave heart be spiritless and still,
Amid the havoc, thou art hovering nigh
To calm each groan, and close each dying eye,
And waft the spirit to that halcyon shore,
Where war's loud thunders lash the winds no more.
Robert Montgomery.
THE muffled drum rolled on the air,
Warriors with stately step were there;
On every arm was the black crape bound,
Every carbine was turned to the ground:
Solemn the sound of their measured tread,
As silent and slow they followed the dead.
The riderless horse was led in the rear,
There were white plumes waving over the bier,
Helmet and sword were laid on the pall,
For it was a soldier's funeral.
That soldier had stood on the battle-plain,
Where every step was over the slain :
But the brand and the ball had passed him by,
And he came to his native land to die!-
'Twas hard to come to that native land,
And not. clasp one familiar hand!
"Twas hard to be numbered amid the dead,
Or ere he could hear his welcome said!
But 'twas something to see its cliffs once more,
And to lay his bones on his own loved shore;
To think that the friends of his youth might weep
O'er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep.
The bugles ceased their wailing sound,
As the coffin was lowered into the ground;
A volley was fired, a blessing said,
One moment's pause-and they left the dead!—、
I saw a poor and an aged man,
His step was feeble, his lip was wan;
He knelt him down on the new-raised mound,
His face was bowed on the cold, damp ground:
He raised his head, his tears were done,-
The FATHER had prayed o'er his only son.
I LOOKED far back into other years, and lo! in bright array, I saw, as in a dream the forms of ages passed away.
It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls, And gardens, with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep falls;
And o'er the antique dial-stones the creeping shadow passed,
And all around the noon-day sun a drowsy radiance cast.
No sound of busy life was heard, save, from the cloister dim,
The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn.
And there five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees,
In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects
please;
And little recked they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper prayers,
That Scotland knew no prouder names-held none more dear than theirs
And little even the loveliest thought, before the holy shine, Of royal blood and high descent from the ancient Stuart line: Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight, And, as they flew, they left behind a long continuing light. The scene was changed. It was the court, the gay court of Bourbon,
And 'neath a thousand silver lamps a thousand courtiers throng;
And proudly kindles Henry's eye-well pleased, I ween, to
The land assemble all its wealth of grace and chivalry:But fairer far than all the rest who bask on fortune's tide, Effulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new-made bride! The homage of a thousand hearts the fond, deep love of
The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun,
They lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle o'er her cheek, They sparkle on her open brów, and high-souled joy bespeak: Ah! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its brilliant hours,
She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine and its flowers?
The scene was changed. Beside the block a sullen headsman stood,
And gleamed the broad-axe in his hand, that soon must drip with blood.
With slow and steady step there came a lady through the hall,
And breathless silence chained the lips, and touched the hearts of all.
I knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its bloom,
I saw that grief had decked it out-an offering for the
I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly
I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrilled with every
I knew the ringlets, almost gray, once threads of living gold; I knew that bounding grace of step-that symmetry of
Even now I see her far away, in that calm convent aisle,
I hear her chant her vesper-hymn-I mark her holy smile,-
Even now I see her bursting forth, upon the bridal morn,
A new star in the firmament, to light and glory born!
Alas! the change!-she placed her foot upon a triple throne,
And on the scaffold now she stands-beside the block-alone!
The little dog that licks her hand-the last of all the crowd
Who sunned themselves beneath her glance, and round her
footsteps bowed!
-Her neck is bared-the blow is struck-the soul is passed away!
The bright-the beautiful is now a bleeding piece of clay! The dog is moaning piteously; and, as it gurgles o'er,
Laps the warm blood that trickling runs unheeded to the floor!
The blood of beauty, wealth, and power-the heart-blood of a queen
The noblest of the Stuart race-the fairest earth has seen,Lapped by a dog! Go, think of it, in silence and alone;" Then weigh, against a grain of sand, the glories of a throne! H. G. Bell, abridged.
WITH storm-daring pinion, and sun-gazing eye
The Gray Forest Eagle is king of the sky!
Oh! little he loves the green valley of flowers,
Where sunshine and song cheer the bright summer hours,
But the dark, gloomy gorge, where down plunges the foam
Of the fierce, rocky torrent, he claims as his home;
There he blends his keen shriek with the roar of the flood,
And the many-voiced sounds of the blast-smitten wood.
A fitful red glaring, a low, rumbling jar,
Proclaim the storm-demon yet raging afar;
The black cloud strides upward, the lightning more red,
And the roll of the thunder, more deep and more dread:
The Gray Forest Eagle, where, where has he sped?
Does he shrink to his eyrie, and shiver with dread?
Does the glare blind his eyes? Has the terrible blast
On the wing of the sky-king a fear-fetter cast?
O, no! the brave Eagle, he thinks not of fright;
The wrath of the tempest but rouses delight;
To the flash of the lightning his eye casts a gleam,
To the shriek of the wild blast he echoes his scream,
And with front, like a warrior, that speeds to the fray,
And a clapping of pinions, he's up and away!
Away, O away, soars the fearless and free!
What recks he the sky's strife?—its monarch is he!
The lightning dark round him,-undaunted his sight;
The blast sweeps against him,-unwavering his flight;
High upward, still upward he wheels, till his form
Is lost in the dark scowling gloom of the storm.
The tempests glides o'er with its terrible train,
And the splendor of sunshine is glowing again;
And full on the form of the tempest in flight,
The rainbow's magnificence gladdens the sight!
The Gray Forest Eagle! O, where is he now,
While the sky wears the smile of its God on its brow?
There's a dark, floating spot by yon cloud's pearly wreath,
With speed of the arrow 'tis shooting beneath;
Down, nearer and nearer, it draws to the gaze,—
Now over the rainbow,-now blent with its blaze;-
'Tis the Eagle, the Gray Forest Eagle!-once more
He sweeps to his eyrie,-his journey is o'er.
TIME whirls round his circle, his years roll away,
But the Gray Forest Eagle minds little his sway;
The child spurns its buds for youth's thorn-hidden bloom,
Seeks manhood's bright phantoms, finds age and a tomb;
But the Eagle's eye dims not, his wing is unbowed,
Still drinks he the sunshine, still scales he the cloud.
An emblem of freedom, stern, haughty, and high,
Is the Gray Forest Eagle, that king of the sky!
When his shadow steals black o'er the empires of kings,
Deep terror,-deep, heart-shaking terror,-he brings;
Where wicked oppression is armed for the weak,
There rustles his pinion, there echoes his shriek;
His eye flames with vengeance, he sweeps on his way,
And his talons are bathed in the blood of his prey.
O, that Eagle of Freedom! when cloud upon cloud
Swathed the sky of my own native land with a shroud,
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