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Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother when she feels
For the first time her firstborn's breath; -
Come when the blessed seals

Which close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come to consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;-
Come when the heart beats high and warm,
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine,
And thou art terrible: the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear
Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come, when his task of fame is wrought
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought-
Come in her crowning hour. And then
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prisoned men ;
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh

To the world-seeking Genoese,

When the land wind, from woods of palm, And orange groves, and fields of balm, Blew o'er the Haytian seas.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave

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Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime.
She wore no funeral weeds for thee,

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,

The heartless luxury of the tomb. But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone; For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings her birthday bells; Of thee her babe's first lisping tells; For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch and cottage bed; Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears.

And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys And even she who gave thee birth, Tell by thy pilgrim-circled hearth,

Tales of thy doom without a sigh;

For thou art freedom's now, and fame's-
One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die.

THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO.

FROM THE SERVIAN. TRANSLATED BY OWEN Meredith. EXTRACTS.

THERE resteth to Servia a glory,

A glory that shall not grow old; There remaineth to Servia a story, A tale to be chanted and told!

They are gone to their graves grim and gory, The beautiful, brave, and bold;

But out of the darkness and desolation

Of the mourning heart of a widowed nation, Their memory waketh an exultation!

Yea, so long as a babe shall be born,

Or there resteth a man in the land

So long as a blade of corn

Shall be reapt by a human hand —
So long as the grass shall grow
On the mighty plain of Kossovo—
So long, so long, even so,
Shall the glory of those remain
Who this day in battle were slain.

"And as for what ye inquire

Of Vouk, — when the worm and mole
Are at work on his bones, may his soul
Eternally singe in hell-fire!

Curst be the race and the name of him!
And foul as his sin be the fame of him!
For blacker traitor never drew sword-
False to his faith, to his land, to his lord!
And doubt ye, doubt ye, the tale I tell?
Ask of the dead, for the dead know well ;
Let them answer ye, each from his mouldy bed,
For there is no falsehood among the dead:
And there be twelve thousand dead men know
Who betrayed the Tzar at Kossovo."

CORONACH.

WALTER SCOTT.

HE is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer dried fountain

When our need was the sorest.

The fount, reappearing,

From the raindrops shall borrow;

But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary;

But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are searest;
But our flower was in flushing

When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi,

Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and forever!

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

THOMAS CAmpbell.

OF Nelson and the North

Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand,

In a bold, determined hand,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on.

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