For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives
A faithful band. With solemn rites between,
"Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives,
And in their deaths had not divided been.

Touched by the music and the melting scene,
Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd-
Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen
To veil their eyes, as passed each much-loved shroud
While woman's softer soul in woe dissolved aloud.

Then mournfully the parting bugle bid

Its farewell o'er the grave of worth and truth:
Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid

His face on earth; him watched, in gloomy ruth,
His woodland guide; but words had none to soothe
The grief that knew not consolation's name;
Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth,

He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame!

'And I could weep,' the Oneyda chief

His descant wildly thus begun;

'But that I may not stain with grief

The death-song of my father's son,

Or bow this head in woe!

For, by my wrongs, and by my wrath,

To-morrow Areouski's breath,

That fires yon heaven with storms of death,

Shall light us to the foe:

And we shall share, my Christian boy.

The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!

But thee, my flower, whose breath was given

By milder genii o'er the deep,

The spirits of the white man's heaven
Forbid not thee to weep:

Nor will the Christian host,

Nor will thy father's spirit grieve,
To see thee on the battle's eve,
Lamenting, take a mournful leave
Of her who loved thee most:
She was the rainbow to thy sight!
Thy sun-thy heaven of lost delight!

'To-morrow let us do or die.

But when the bolt of death is hurled,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissì roam the world?
Seck we thy once-loved home?

The hand is gone that cropt its flowers;
Unheard their clock repeats its hours;
Cold is the hearth within their bowers:
And should we thither roam,

Its echoes and its empty tread

Would sound like voices from the dead!

'Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,

Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed,

And by my side, in battle true,

A thousand warriors drew the shaft?

Ah! there, in desolation cold,

The desert serpent dwells alone,

Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone,

And stores themselves to ruin grown,
Like me, are death-like old.

Then seek we not their camp; for there
The silence dwells of my despair!

'But hark, the trump! to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears:
Even from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears,
Amidst the clouds that round us roll;
He bids my soul for battle thirst-
He bids me dry the last-the first-
The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul;

Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief !'

Ye Mariners of England.

Ye mariners of England!
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved a thousand years
The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,"
Your manly hearts shall glow.
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

Of Nelson and the North,

Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy winds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow!

Battle of the Baltic.

* When first printed (Nelson being then living), this line stood, Where Blake, the koast of freedom, fell.'

Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back;

Their shots along the deep slowly boom
Then ceased-and all is wail,

As they strike the shattered sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hailed them o'er the wave;
Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save;

So peace instead of death let us bring;
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our king.'

Then Denmark blessed our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,

As death withdrew his shades from the And t mermaid's song condoles,

day.

Singing gley to the souls
Of the brave! +

Hohenlinden.

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden suow,
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 arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flashed 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 sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On. ye brave,
Who rush to ry, or the grave!
Wave, Munic 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.‡

Captain Riou, styled by Lord Nelson the gallant and the good.-CAMPBELL, + Originally this last line stood:

Shall mark the soldier's cemet'ry.'

The first draft of the above noble poem was sent to Scott in 1835. and consists of thirty stanzas-all published in Beattie's Lafe of Camphett. The piece was greatly improved by the condensation, but the following omitted verses on the English sailors are striking:

Not such a mind possessed

England's tar;

'Twas the love of noble game
Set his oaken heart on flame.
For to him 'twas all the same-
Sport and war.

All hands and eyes on watch

As they keep

By their motion light as wings.
By each step that haughty springs,
You might know them for the kings
Of the deep.

From 'The Last Man.'

All worldly 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 gulf 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!

A Thought suggested

The more we live, more brief appear.
Our life's succeeding stages:

A day to childhood seems a year,
And years like passing ages.

The gladsome current of our youth,
Ere passion yet disorders,
Steals, lingering like a river smooth
Along its grassy borders.

But as the care-worn cheek grows wan,
And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,
Ye stars that measure life to man,
Why seem your courses quicker?

sun;

Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

Tis mercy bids the go.

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

That shall no longer flow. . . .

'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 recalled to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robbed the grave of victory,
And took the sting from death!'

by the New Year.

When joys have lost their bloom and

breath,

And life itself is vapid,

Why, as we reach the fails of death
Feel we its tide more rapid ?

It may be strange-yet who would change
Time's course to slower speeding;
When one by one our friends have gone,
And left our bosoms bleeding?

Heaven gives our years of fading strength
Indemnifying fleetness;

And those of youth, a seeming length,
Proportioned to their sweetness.

MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS.

MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS, author of The Monk,' was born in London in the year 1775. His father was deputy-secretary in the War-office, and owner of extensive West Indian possessions. Matthew was educated at Westminster School, where he was more remarkable for his love of theatrical exhibitions than for his love of learning. On leaving Westminster, he was entered of Christ Church College, Oxford, but remained only a short period, being sent to Germany with a view of acquiring a knowledge of the language of that country. When a child, Lewis had pored over Glanville on Witches, and other books of diablerie; and in Germany he found abundant food of the same description. Romance and the drama were his favourite studies; and whilst resident abroad, he composed the story of 'The Monk,' a work more extravagant in its use of supernatural

machinery than any previous English tale of modern times, and disfigured with licentious passages. The novel was published in 1795, and attracted much attention. A prosecution, it is said, was threatened on account of the peccant scenes and descriptions; to avert which, Lewis pledged himself to recall the printed copies, and to recast the work in another edition. The author continued through life the same strain of marvellous and terrific composition-now clothing it in verse, now infusing it into the scenes of a drama, and at other times expanding it into regular tales. His 'Tales of Terror,' 1799; "Tales of Wonder' (to which Sir Walter Scott contributed); Romantic Tales,' 1808; 'The Bravo of Venice,' 1804: and Feudal Tyrants,' 1806, both translated from the German, with numerous dramas, all bespeak the same parentage as 'The Monk,' and none of them excels it. His best poetry, as well as prose, is to be found in this novel; for, like Mrs. Radcliffe, Lewis introduced poetical compositions into his tales; and his ballads of Alonzo the Brave,' and 'Durandarte' were as attractive as any of the adventures of.Ambrosio the monk. Flushed with the brilliant success of his romance, and fond of distinction and high society, Lewis procured a seat in parliament, and was returned for the borough of Hindon, but he never attempted to address the House. The theatres offered a more attractive field for his genius; and his play of The Castle Spectre,' produced in 1797, was applauded as enthusiastically and more universally than his romance. Connected with his dramatic fame, a very interesting anecdote is related in the Memoirs and Correspondence of Lewis, published in 1839. It illustrates his native benevolence, which, amidst all the frivolities of fashionable life, and the excitement of misapplied talents, was a conspicuous feature in his character:

Being one autumn on his way to participate in the enjoyments of the season with the rest of the fashionable world at a celebrated watering-place, he passed through a small country town, in which chance occasioned his temporary sojourn: here also were located a company of strolling players, whose performance he one evening witnessed. Among them was a young actress, whose benefit was on the tapis, and who, on hearing of the arrival of a person so talked of as Monk Lewis, waited upon him at the inn, to request the very trifling favour of an original piece from his pen. The lady pleaded in terms that urged the spirit of benevolence to advocate her cause in a heart never closed to such appeal.

'Lewis had by him at that time an unpublished trifle, called "The Hindoo Bride," in which a widow was immolated on the funeral pile of her husband. The subject was one well suited to attract a country audience, and he determined thus to appropriate the drama. The delighted suppliant departed all joy and gratitude at being requested to call for the manuscript the next day. Lewis, however, soon discovered that he had been reckoning without his host, for, on searching the travelling-desk which contained many of his papers, “The