THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

Captain Gilmore.

It is not fall of night,

Yet the pale day is overcast with gloom,

And swords and bayonets, infantry and horse,
Are lost in darkness! 'tis the livid hue

That waits on each discharge, whose sombre wreath
Shadows the fighting hosts! So-when the spouts
Of Giant Etna, on the golden sun,

Disgorge her whirlwinds of impetuous flame,
And the red lava runs-in pitchy clouds
The smoke aspires, and darkening overcasts
The firmament, that half the nations lie
Under the cope of night. So battle's cloud
Darkened the hosts, and hid with dreary veil
The slaughter on each side. Man dropp'd on man;
Shouts mixed with groans and never-ceasing cries
Of animating chiefs. Peal followed peal;

Flash followed flash; and, whistling shrill, the ball
Drove on, in globe, or scattering iron hail.
Still streams the British standard thro' the mist,
And still the eagle glitters o'er the Gaul.
What rush is that, that, like to thunder, rocks
The hollow ground? Encanopied in smoke,
Onward it rolls. "Stand, Britons! firmly stand!
Swerve not an inch! The Cuirassiers advance
In steel of proof! The Polack, with his spear,
Speeds to the charge."And nobly did you stand,
Sons of the white-clifted isle! Not brighter beams
The glance of beauty from your lovely fair,
Than from your eyes, untamed by coward fear,
The soul undaunted flashed. Tho' fierce the gun
Rent
your close
squares; tho' midst your serried ranks
The shell exploded; ankle deep in blood

Ye stood, fast rooted as your native rocks!

Knee locked in knee, on shoulder shoulder pressed,
Bayonet on bayonet stretched, and levelled tubes
In deadly row, th' indissoluble squares

Defied all force, and rapid as the flash,
Sent from the bosom of a thund'rous cloud,
Shot after shot, the running volley flew.

Man, courser, chieftain, eagle, blade, and spear,

Together dropped. In mingled carnage wild
Humbled they lay; and shrinking with affright,
The rest recoil'd. Loud pealed the British cheers!

THE WATERLOO MEDAL.

F. H. Bayley.

OH! he paus'd on the hill as he came from the fight,
His dear native village once more was in sight-
The hawthorn in blossom, the sweet purling stream,
And the cot, which when absent, still haunted his dream;
And one flew to meet him—the pride of his home :
To gain such a welcome, Oh! who would not roam ?
And proud was his breast, as her sweet lip she prest,
To the WATERLOO MEDAL that hung at his breast.

But soon from afar the war summons was heard,
He threw down love's garland, and, seizing his sword,
He left his dear country, still smiling in peace,
And fought with the brave for the freedom of Greece:
And she whom he lov'd hath long sought him in vain—
They tell her she ne'er will behold him again:
One token they gave her-her pale lip is prest
To the WATERLOO MEDAL that hung at his breast.

THE LOVELY ROSE.

O THOU art lovely, queen of flowers!
Fair emblem of our fleeting hours,

Our life's contracted day;

Thou breathest fragrance to the morn,
And yet, beneath thee lurks a thorn-—
How like life's chequer'd way!

Cossey.

Thou spreadest all thy gaudy bloom,
A few short days-then comes thy doom;
Thy sweetness soon is fled!

So pass our brightest charms away,
Our fairest forms soon meet decay,
And, like thy leaves, are shed.

And yet we are not doom'd to be,
O Rose! for ever like to thee;
For, when thy flower is gone,
They who loved thee see with pain,
That all thy angry thorns remain,
Unlovely and alone.

Not so are vanish'd all our joys,
When death our mortal form destroys;
Not so our thorns shall stay:
Our sorrows shall for ever cease,
Our joys shall ever bloom in peace,
In heaven's eternal day.

THE DYING ROSE.

COME, drooping rose, recline thy head,
And on my sorrowing bosom die;
Thy precious odours shall, when dead,
From thence be wafted by a sigh.

Thus friendship! shall thy healing pow'r
Divest my bosom of its woe,
And like this balmy fragrant flow'r,
A grateful essence shall bestow.

MY BROKEN LUTÉ.

Dodgson.

My broken lute, good bye, good bye;

To thee I bid, farewell,

I leave thee with a tearful eye,
The lute I lov'd so well.

If song of war thy strings inspir'd,

Oh! thou could'st sound the Call,
That bade the hero's breast be fir'd,
To win a wreath or fall.

I've heard thee too, with lover's strain,
Plead to a maiden's heart;

And never didst thou sue in vain,
Or play deceiver's part:

E

But now, neglected lyre, farewell,
Thy tuneful strings are mute,
Those shatter'd fragments sadly tell
Thy hapless fate, my lute.

I'D BE A BUTTERFLY.

I'd be a butterfly born in a bower,

F, H. Bayley.

Where roses and lilies, and violets meet;

Roving for ever from flower to flower,

And tasting all buds that are pretty and sweet: I'd never languish for wealth or for power, I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet; I'd be a butterfly, born in a bower,

And tasting all buds that are pretty and sweet. Oh! could I pilfer the wand of a fairy,

I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings;

Their summer day's ramble is sportive and airy,
They sleep in a rose when the Nightingale sings.
Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary,
Power, alas! nought but misery brings-
I'd be a butterfly, sportive and airy,

Rock'd in a rose when the Nightingale sings. What! though you tell me each gay little rover Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day; Surely 'tis better, when summer is over,

To die when all fair things are fading away. Some in life's winter may toil to discover Means of procuring a weary delay

I'd be a butterfly, living a rover,

Dying when fair things are fading away.

POOR insect! what a little day

Of sunny bliss is thine!

And yet thou spread'st thy light wings gay,
And bid'st them spreading shine.

Thou humm'st thy short and busy time,
Unmindful of the blast;

And careless, while 'tis burning noon,
How short that noon has past.

A shower would lay thy beauties low,
The dew of twilight be
The torrent of thy overthrow,
Thy storm of destiny.

Then, insect! spread thy shining wing,
Hum on thy busy lay;

For Man, like thee has but his spring-
Like thine it fades away.

WILT THOU LEND ME THY MARE?

A CATCH.

“WILT thou lend me thy mare to go a mile ?"
No, she's lame leaping over a stile."

"But if thou wilt her to me spare,
Thou shalt have money for thy mare."
"Oh! oh!- -say you so?

"Tis money that makes the mare to go."