The Fallen Comrade. THE grey eye of eve palely sunk in the west, And kiss'd, as it pass'd o'er the dead soldier's breast, The dark veil of night overshadow'd the field, The proud-swelling trumpet resuméd its sound, But ah! hapless sight! lay cold on the ground His bright auburn ringlets were dyed in his blood, His shield lay in shatters where last he had stood, That shield his brave arm oft had borne. His helmet and sabre, not far from that spot, I dropp'd a sad tear for my poor comrade's lot, No deep-sounding dirge, nor rude gaping crowd, A shield was the hearse, a scarf all the shroud, The trumpet's loud blast from the field struck my ear I sigh'd as I left the dear spot; I oft o'er his memory spend a fond tear Dissension. ALAS! how light a cause may move Hearts that the world in vain had tried, Moore. That stood the storm, when waves were rough Yet in a sunny hour fall off, Like ships, that have gone down at sea, A something light as air a look, A word unkind or wrongly taken Oh! love, that never tempests shook, A breath, a touch like this, hath shaken. And ruder words will soon rush in To spread the breach that words begin ; The Forsaken to the False one. Thomas Haynes Bayly. I DARE thee to forget me! go wander where thou wilt, Thy hand upon the vessel's helm, or on the sabre's hilt; Away! thou 'rt free! o'er land or sea, go rush to danger's brink, But oh, thou canst not fly from thought! thy curse will be to think. Remember me! remember all my long enduring love, That link'd itself to perfidy-the vulture and the dove: Remember in thy utmost need I never once did shrink, But clung to thee confidingly; thy curse shall be—to think. Then go that thought will render thee a dastard in the fight: That thought when thou art tempest-tost will fill thee with affright; In some vile dungeon may'st thou lay, and, counting each cold link That binds thee to captivity, thy curse shall be - to think! Go seek the merry banquet-hall, where younger maidens bloom, The thought of me shall make thee there endure a deeper gloom; That thought shall turn the festive cup to poison while you drink, And while false smiles are on thy cheek, thy curse will be to think! Forget me? false one, hope it not! when minstrels touch the string, The memories of other days will gall thee while they sting: The airs I used to love will make thy coward-conscience shrink; Aye, every note will have its sting,-tby curse will be— to think. Forget me? no, that shall not be ! I'll haunt thee in thy sleep, In dreams thou 'lt cling to slimy rocks that overhang the deep; Thou 'lt shriek for aid! my feeble arm shall hurl thee from the brink, And, when thou wakest in wild dismay, thy curse will be to think! Stanza. Bernard Barton, Esq. DEWS, that nourish fairest flowers, Fall unheard in stillest hours; Streams, which keep the meadows green, Often flow themselves unseen. Violets, hidden on the ground, Throw their balmy odours round; Viewless, in the vaulted sky, Larks pour forth their melody. Emblems these, which well express Felt but in its fruits alone! From the Amethyst for 1833. Consolation. YES, there is a Being benignant above us, A balm for the wounded, a beam for the tear; Which comes o'er the bosom like day o'er the billow To mariners weary and wild with despair; Which brightens the dungeon and softens the pillow, And smiles like a rose on our wilderness here. The mighty and proud in their mansions of pleasure |