For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;

And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride: And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow at the glance of the LORD!

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

look'd 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!

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 dawn 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 Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, 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 of 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.

THE LAKE OF GENEVA.

CLEAR, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring.
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
To waft me from distraction: once I loved

Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved,

That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved.

It is the hush of night, and all between

Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen,

Save darken'd Jura, whose capp'd heights appear
Precipitously steep; and drawing near

There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,
Or chirps the grasshopper one good night-carol more ;

He is an evening reveller, who makes
His life an infancy, and sings his fill:
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill,
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews
All silently their tears of love instil,
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.

*

*

*

*

The sky is changed!-and such a change! O night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength!

Far along

From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!

And this is in the night.-Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be

A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,—
A portion of the tempest, and of thee!

M

How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!

And now again 'tis black,-and now the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.

*

*

*

*

Now where the swift Rhone thus hath cleft his way, The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand: For here, not one, but many, make their play,

And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand, Flashing and cast around: of all the band, The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd

His lightnings, as if he did understand,

That in such gaps as desolation work'd

There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd.

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye! With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul

To make these felt and feeling, well may be

Things that have made me watchful; the far roll
Of your departed voices is the knoll

Of what in me is sleepless,-if I rest.

But where of ye, O tempests! is the goal? Are ye like those within the human breast? Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest?

The morn is up again, the dewy morn,

With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,

And living as if earth contain'd no tomb,