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ENGLAND.

ISLE of the ocean ! Zion of the seas !
Child of the waves! and nursling of the breeze !
How beauteous, Albion, on thy lonely steep
Thou risest, like a vision, in the deep !
The temple of the brave, the good, the free,
Built by some spirit in the circling sea !
Still hast thou floated, like a thing of light,
Through all the darkness of the moral night,
Alone upon the waves,—the hallow'd ark
Where Freedom shelter'd, when the world was dark ;
Bade exiled Piety, Truth, Valour, come,
And every bleeding virtue find a home;
While Science left her eastern home for thee,
And nestled, like the halcyon, in the sea !
Above thee gentlest airs in gladness meet ;
The billows break in music at thy feet;
And heaven's purest dews, and holiest dyes,
Weep on thy breast, and brighten in thy skies.

Rome of the waters ! on thy sea-girt rock,
Far from the battle and the tempest's shock,
Thou sittest proudly on thine ocean throne,
A sceptred queen, majestic and alone!
In fairy state, on emerald couch reclined,
Rock'd by the waves and cradled in the wind !

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Far o'er the deep thy crimson flag unfurl'd,
Streams like a meteor to the gazing world.
With stately necks and bounding motion, ride
Thy gallant barks, like swans, upon the tide ;
Lift up their swelling bosoms to the sky,
And spread their wings, to woo the gales from high.

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Gem of the ocean ! empress of the sea !
My heart could weep in fondness over thee.
My soul looks forward, through a mist of tears,
To pierce the darkness of the coming years,
And dimly reads, amid the future gloom,
Warning she dare not utter of thy doom.
And canst thou perish, island of the free?
Shall Ruin dare to fling her shroud o'er thee?
Thou who dost light the nations like a star
In solitary grandeur from afar !
Thou who hast been, indeed, the pillar'd light
For Israel's sons, in Superstition's night!
Can desolation reach thy hallow'd strand,
While Shakspeare's spirit breathes along the land,
While time o'er Milton's grave fleets powerless by,
And Newton's mem
emory links thee to the sky?

HERVEY.

THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

THERE was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage-bell ;
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !

Did

ye not hear it ?—No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-
But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before !
Arm! Arm ! it is—it is—the cannon's opening roar!

Within a window'd niche of that high hall,
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;

THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

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And when they smiled because he deem'd it near
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier,

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell :
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell !

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated. Who could guess

If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise !

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused

up

the soldier ere the morning star; While throng'd the citizens, with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips—The foe! They come!

They come!

And wild and high the “Cameron's gathering” rose !
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes ;
How in the noon of night her pibroch thrills,

Savage and shrill ! But with the breath that fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring that instils

The stirring memory of a thousand years,
And Evan’s, Donald's, fame rings in each clansman's ears !

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And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with Nature's teardrops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave,—alas !
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valour, rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms,—the day
Battle's magnificently stern array !
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent,
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse,-friend, foe,-in one red burial blent !

BYRON.

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