In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne ;
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!

The Death of Marmion.

WITH fruitless labour, Clara bound,

And strove to stanch, the gushing wound:
The Monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers.
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,
And that the priest he could not hear,
For that she ever sung,

Campbell.

"In the lost battle, borne down by the flying,
"Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!"

So the notes rung ;-
"Avoid thee, Fiend!-with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand!-
Oh, look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine ;

Oh, think on faith and bliss!-
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this."-
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swell'd the gale,
And STANLEY! was the cry—
A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye:

With dying hand, above his head
He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted "Victory!

Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" Were the last words of Marmion !

Sir Walter Scott.

The Burial of Sir John Moore,

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our Hero was buried.
We buried him darkly; at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moon-beams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay-like a warrior taking his rest-
With his martial cloak around him!

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow-
We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow-

How the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow !

'Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;

But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him."
But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring,
And we heard the distant and random gun,
That the foe was suddenly firing-

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory! We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him-alone with his glory!

The Battle of Hohenlinden.

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
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 array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry;

Then shook the hills with thunder riven !
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven !
And louder than the bolts of Heaven,
Far flash'd 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-cloud rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy!
The combat deepens-On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave !
Wave, Munich, 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 !

wwwwww

The Dying Christian to his Soul.
Vital spark of heavenly flame!
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whisper-angels say,
"Sister spirit, come away".
What is this absorbs me quite?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be-death ?-

Campbell.

The world recedes ! it disappears!
Heaven opens to my eyes!-my ears
With sounds seraphic ring!

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?

O Death! where is thy sting?

On the Downfal of Poland.

Pope.

O sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile,
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile,
When leagued Oppression pour'd to Northern wars
Her whisker'd pandoors and her fierce hussars,
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet horn;
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,
Presaging wrath to Poland-and to man!

Warsaw's last champion, from her height survey'd, Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,

"O Heaven!" he cried, "my bleeding country save!-
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains,
Rise fellow-men! our COUNTRY yet remains!
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high!
And swear for her to live with her to die!"

He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd
His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd;
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm!
Low, murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
REVENGE, OR DEATH!-the watchword and reply;
Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm!—

In vain-alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank your vollied thunder flew :O! bloodiest picture in the book of time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime ! Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe! Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear,

Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career;—

Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shriek'd-as KOSCIUSKO fell!

The sun went down, nor ceas'd the carnage there; Tumultuous murder shook the midnight airOn Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glowHis blood-dy'd waters murmuring far below. The storm prevails! the rampart yields awayBursts the wild cry of horror and dismay! Hark! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call! Earth shook!-red meteors flash'd along the sky! And conscious nature shudder'd at the cry!

O righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave, Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save?

Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod,
That smote the foes of Zion and of God?

That crush'd proud Ammon, when his iron car
Was yoked in wrath, and thunder'd from afar ?
Where was the storm that slumber'd till the host
Of blood-stain'd Pharaoh left their trembling coast;
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow,
And heaved an ocean on their march below?

Departed spirits of the MIGHTY DEAD!—

Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled!

Friends of the world! restore your swords to man,
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van!
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone,
And make her arm puissant as your own!
Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return

The PATRIOT TELL-the BRUCE of BANNOCKBURN!

The Maid of the Inn.

Campbell.

Who is she, the poor maniac! whose wildly-fix'd eyes
Seem a heart overcharged to express ?·

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs;
She never complains-but her silence-implies
The composure of settled distress!

No aid, no compassion, the maniac will seek,
Cold and hunger awake not her care;

R