Then waved his standards 'neath Italia's skies,
Amid the maiden's tears, the mother's sighs,
While from proud turret and cathedral grim
Came sadly forth a nation's funeral hymn!
On! on! he hurried-on ! in mad career,
A noble army thundering in his rear;
On! till the towers of Moscow met his eye,
Their spires and turrets mounting to the sky!
O'erwhelmed, defeated on those snowy plains,
Where o'er an ice-clad realm cold winter reigns,
He left those icy fields with slaughter red,
His homeward march with crimson carnage spread,
And now upon the issue of an hour

He stakes his throne and more than monarch's pow'r !
Before him stand in hollow square arrayed,
By love of country and ambition swayed,
The flow'r of Britain, burning for the fray
And all impatient at the long delay!

A moment flies! and at the signal gun,
The hellish work of battle is begun!

From rank to rank the ringing sabres clash;

O'er maimed and dead the mounted squadrons dash;
Like the live thunder sounds the cannon's roar,
Till the wide plain is buried deep in gore!
On! on! they fly-that crowd of armed men!
On! o'er the hill, and through the guarded glen-
Their guns and sabres reeking with the blood
That like a torrent rolls its crimson flood!
Swift o'er the plain, amid the tide of war,
His white plume gleaming like a radiant star,
And madly plunging in the awful fray,
Bold, but collected, rides the gallant Ney!

A strong battalion follows in his train,
With thundering step-the last, the only chain
That binds Napoleon to his toil-won throne,
Built on the widow's sigh the orphan's moan!
Tramp! tramp! tramp! as with a ringing sound
The iron hoofed coursers gallop o'er the ground!
Tramp! tramp! tramp! terrible and grand
Moves the dark squadron o'er the bloody strand!
Like a wild storm, they dash upon the foe,
Lift high the sword and strike the frenzied blow,
Spur the swift steed upon th' unyielding square,
And all that mortals can both do and dare!
In vain! in vain! before a murderous fire,
Blood stained and weak, these gallant souls retire:

Tis lost! 'tis lost! a single sweeping blow
Has struck the monarch and the tyrant low!

And where-aye! where is now the jewelled crown;
The fawning crowd that trembled at his frown;
The golden diadem whose gorgeous blaze
O'erawed the world and riveted its gaze?
Gone! all gone! beyond redemption, gone―
And he-the mighty conqueror-sits alone!

Go view the field! go! gaze upon the dead-
The stars their watchers and the turf their bed!
Go! for the silence of the deep midnight

Broods o'er the scene of many a desperate fight!
Yes! there they sleep-a spectral, ghastly band,
Their lifeless cheeks by murmuring breezes fanned!
No friend was near them in the hour of death;
No pray'rs were mingled with their fleeting breath;
No sister's tears bedewed their pallid brows,
Nor weeping loved ones heard their dying vows;
No mother's voice-sweet music to their ears-
Whispered of peace and charmed away their fears;
None! none! were there to point them to the sky
And guide their spirits to the throne on high;
But on the field-the field of strife-they fell,
The rattling drum their only funeral knell !
Died-while their hearts to noble deeds were strung,
Died-while the clarion trumpet loudly rung,
While hate, revenge, and every passion dire
Burned in their beating hearts like coals of fire!

Go view the field! There the Warrior sleeps,
While o'er his tomb an orphaned sister weeps !
Count the sad tears that tremble in her eyes;
Mark her pale cheek and listen to her sighs;
See what a wreck the fiend of war has made;
Then-if you can-unsheath the battle blade!
But see! beside that pulseless form she kneels,
Her poor heart bursting with the grief she feels,
Prays to her mother, and, with tearful eye,
Beseeches Heav'n to bear her to the sky!

While the crystal tears are streaming
O'er my wan and roseless cheek,
None, with soft eyes gently beaming,
Speak to me as thou would'st speak!

II.

Listen, then, sweet mother, listen,
Grant thy 'wildered daughter's pray'r!
Soon the wintry snows will glisten
O'er her grave, so lone and bare :
When the fatal death-dart gleameth,
And the cold tomb opens wide,

While thine eye with fondness beameth,
Take me! take me! to thy side!

God heareth prayer! A groan-a choking sigh—
Her soul is wafted to its home on high!

Go view the field! There the Veteran fell,
There, in the centre of that hoof-torn dell!
Ye saw the war-knife flashing in his hand,
Ye heard the echo of his loud command,
Ye marked his dark form in the madd'ning fray,
When clouds of smoke obscured the light of day,
Ye saw the red sweep of his dripping blade,
And the bold onset by his prowess stayed―
Yet there he lies, upon that noiseless plain,
A bloody victim at a bloodier fane.
His gray hair tangled on his furrowed brow,
He heeds nor drum nor martial trumpet now,
But sleepeth ever 'neath the flow'ry sod,

Till worlds are summoned to the bar of God!

Go-view the field!-th' accursed, blood-stained field,
And if thy heart be not to anguish steeled,
If in thy heart there burns one spark of love,
Lit by the dove-eyed queen of realms above,
Weep for the wreck that is round you strewn,
Weep for the fall of the crumbling throne,
Weep for the chief, the dark-browed chief,
The faded flow'r and the fallen leaf,
The lonely hearth and the silent dell,

And murmur, sad farewell! farewell!

Adieu, bold chief! Young warrior, fare thee well! O'er thy lone tomb there broods a magic spell

A spell that bids us linger o'er the scene

Where sleep the brave, beneath their pall of green! Ye fell, pale victims to a barbarous law;

Ye died, ere yet your straining eyeballs saw

Your country's banner trailing in the dust,
And e'en your mighty King compelled to trust
His life, his fortune, to an angry foe,

Whose pow'rful hand had crushed him at a blow!
Farewell, brave souls !-the God of armies guide
Your ransomed spirits to the Saviour's side,
Where all the tumult of the world is o'er,

And war's dread thunder shall be heard no more!

Go-view the field!-no longer stained with blood,
For flowers grow where once the war-horse stood;
'Neath the warm sunlight glows the golden grain,
Where once the earth was covered with the slain!
Peace, o'er the world, hath spread her genial rays
Won from the poet's lyre his sweetest lays;
Twined a bright garland round the soldier's spear;
Checked the deep sigh and caught the falling tear!
And see the Warrior to his home returns!-
His hand is on the latch-his bosom burns-
Burns at the thought of those whose soul-lit eyes
Soon! soon! will flash with rapture and surprise!
The door swings back!--a single joyous cry!
The wife-the daughter-to his bosom fly!
The clash of swords, the deadly iron shower,
All are forgotten in that blissful hour!
But list! the murmur of a music strain
Welcomes the weary wand'rer home again.

I.

Spirit of purity,

Daughter of Love,

Gently thy soft eye

Beams from above:

Sweetly thou smilest,

Fair child of the sky,
And reignest for ever
O'er angels on high!

II.

Peace, with its blessings,

Dawns on us now;

Gently illuming

The cloud-darkened brow;

Banishing ever

The sabre and shield;

Leading the war-horse

Far from the field!

III.

Flowers unfading

We gather for thee;
Velvet-lipped roses

Thy chaplet shall be;

Gems from the crystal domed

Halls of the sea,

Spirit of beauty,

We offer to thee!

SKETCHES OF VACATION.

"And oft he raced the uplands, to survey,

When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn,
The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray,
And lake, dim gleaming on the smoking lawn:
Far to the west, the long, long vale withdrawn,
Where twilight loves to linger for awhile;
And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn,
And villager abroad at early toil.

But, lo! the sun appears, and heaven, earth, ocean sinile."

"WHEN last we met"

BEATTIE.

Reader, I am exceedingly sorry that I cannot finish my quotation, but, alas, ""Twas not in a crowd;" but if memory serves you, our camp-ground was on the banks of the noisy Androscoggin; and methinks I quitted your good company rather unceremoniously, at night time, when the stars, and fairies too perhaps, were watching our slumbers; when the camp-fires, that once blazed so merrily, had, like the weary sleepers before it, sunk into repose. Now, then, as I seek your fellowship again, the scene changes, but the wanderers are the same.

Do you need a second introduction? Well then, kind, gentle reader, pardoning your forgetfulness, I will give it you. Willingly will I spare you the trouble of accompanying us through some six miles of forest walk, where human footsteps had hardly wandered before, and whose toil and fatigue, time will never cause ine to forget: all this I would not that you should consider, since it is my task to present you with the bright side of the picture only, and ill betide him who, upon reviewing in his quiet chamber the wild adventure and stirring incidents of forest life, would not pass lightly over the little trials of temper and endurance he met with, and which served but as the zest of hunger to the enjoyment of the banquet.

Imagine yourself thus, if you will, upon the shore of a large and beautiful lake away far off amid the forests of Maine, and there, fancy free, stretch yourself upon that broad, shelving rock upon the bank