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by considerable sums. His grand weapon, namely, the millions whom he directed, he owed to the representative character which clothed him. He interests us as he stands for France and for Europe; and he exists as captain and king only as far as the Revolution or the interests of the industrious masses found an organ and a leader in him.
In the social interests he knew the meaning and value of labour, and threw himself naturally on that side. The principal works that have survived him are his magnificent roads. He filled his troops with his spirit, and a sort of freedom and companionship grew up between him and them, which the forms of his court never permitted between the officers and himself. They performed under his eye that which no others could do. The best document of his relation to his troops, is the order of the day on the morning of the battle of Austerlitz, in which Napoleon promises the troops that he will keep his person out of reach of fire. This declaration, which is the reverse of that ordinarily made by generals and sovereigns on the eve of a battle, sufficiently explains the devotion of the army to their leader.
On Linden, when the sun was low,
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But redder yet that light shall glow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
The darkness of her scenery.
'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
To join the dreadful revelry:
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Then shook the hills, wit
riven; Few, shall part, where many meet! Then rushed the steed, to battle driven; The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And, louder than the bolts of heaven, And every turf beneath their feet Far flashed the red artillery.
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
THERE was a sound of revelry by night, And near, the beat of the alarming drum And Belgium's capital had gathered then Roused up the soldier ere the morning Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright
star; The lamps shone o'er fair women and While thronged the citizens with terror brave men:
dumb, A thousand hearts beat happily; and Or whispering, with white lips—“The foe! when
they come, they come !" Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
And wild and high the Cameron's Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake
gathering” rose ! again,
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's And all went merry as a marriage-bell;
hills But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like
Have heard--and heard, too, have her a rising knell.
Saxon foes. Did ye not hear it?-No; 'twas but the How in the noon of night that pibroch wind,
thrills, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; Savage and shrill! But with the breath On with the dance ! let joy be uncon
which fills fined !
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mounNo sleep till morn, when youth and plea
taineers sure meet
With the fierce native daring, which To chase the glowing hours with fiying
The stirring memory of a thousand years; But, hark !--that heavy sound breaks in And Evan's, Donald's, fame rings in each once more,
clansman's ears! As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And Ardennes waves above them her And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
green leaves, Arm ! arm ! it is—it is the cannon's open
Dewy with naiure's tear-drops, as they ing roar!
pass, Ah! then and there were hurrying to Grieving—if aught inanimate
e'er and fro,
grieves, And gathering tears, and tremblings of Over the unreturning brave,--alas ! distress,
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass And cheeks all pale, which but an hour Which now beneath them, but above ago
[liness; Blushed at the praise of their own love- In its next verdure; when this fiery mass And there were sudden partings, such as Of living valour, rolling on the foe press
And burning with high hope, shall moulder The life from out young hearts, and cold and low! choking sighs
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Which ne'er might be repeated;-who
Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay; could guess
The midnight brought the signal-sound If ever more should meet those mutual
of strife, eyes,
The morn the marshalling in arms,-the Since upon night so sweet such awful morn
day could rise.
Battle's magnificently-stern array ! And there was mounting in hot haste: The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, the steed,
when rent, The mustering squadron, and the clatter- The earth is covered thick with other clay, Went pouring forward with impetuous Which her own clay shall cover-heaped speed,
and pent, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; Rider and horse,-friend, foe,-in one red And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
burial blent !
FUNERAL OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
No sounds of labour vexed the quiet air Impatient; or, as trees that bow their From morn till eve. The people all stood tops still,
One way, when Alpine hollows bring one And earth won back a Sabbath. There
way were none
The blast whereat they quiver in the Who cared to buy and sell, and make a vale, gain,
So millions pressed to swell the general For one whole day. All felt as they had grief lost
One way;--for once all men seemed one A father, and were fain to keep within,
way drawn; Silent, or speaking little. Such a day Or if, through evil hap and unforeseen, An old man sees but once in all his time. Some stayed behind, their hearts, at least,
were there The simplest peasant in the land that day The whole day through --could think of Knew somewhat of his country's grief. He nothing else, heard
Hear nothing else, see nothing! The knell of England's hero from the
In his cell tower
The student saw the pageant; spied from Of the old church, and asked the cause, far and sighed.
The long-drawn pomp which reached from The vet'ran who had bled on some far west to east, field,
Slow moving in the silence
-casque and Fought o'er the battle for the thousandth plume time
And banner waving sad; the marvellous With quaint addition; and the little child state That stopped his sport to run and ask his Of heralds, soldiers, nobles, foreign powers, sire
With baton, or with pennon; princes, What it all meant, picked out the simple peers, tale,
Judges, and dignitaries of Church and How he who drove the French from Water- State, loo,
And warriors grown gray-headed;—every And crushed the tyrant of the world, and form made
Which greatness can assume or honour His country great and glorious,--he was name, dead.
Peaceful or warlike,-each and all were All, from the simplest to the stateliest, there; knew
Trooping in sable sorrow after him But one sad story--from the cotter's bairn Who slept serene upon his funeral car Up to the fair-haired lady on the throne, In glorious rest!.... A child might underWho sat within and sorrowed for her friend; stand And every tear she shed became her well, That 'twas no national sorrow, but a grief And seemed more lovely in her people's Wide as the world. A child might undereyes
stand Than all the starry wonders of her crown. That all mankind were sorrowing for one!
That banded nations had conspired to But, as the waters of the Northern Sea
pay (When one strong wind blows steady from This homage to the chief who drew his the pole)
sword Come hurrying to the shore, and far and At the command of Duty; kept it bright wide
Through perilous days; and soon as Victory As eye can reach the creaming waves smiled, press on
Laid it, unsullied, in the lap of Peace.
BINGEN ON THE RHINE.
A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob Algiers;
with drooping head, There was lack of woman's nursing, there when the troops are marching home again, was dearth of woman's tears;
with glad and gallant tread; But a comrade stood beside him, while his But to look upon them proudly, with a calm life-blood ebbed away,
and steadfast eye, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear For her brother was a soldier too, and not what he might say.
afraid to die. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that | And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her comrade's hand,
in my name And he said: "I never more shall see my To listen to him kindly, without regret or own, my native land:
shame; Take a message and a token to some distant And to hang the old sword in its place (my friends of mine,
father's sword and mine), For I was born at Bingen--at Bingen on For the honour of old Bingen--dear Bingen the Rhine.
on the Rhine!
Tell my brothers and companions, when There's another -- not a sister; in the they meet and crowd around,
happy days gone by, To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant You'd have known her by the merriment vineyard ground,
that sparkled in her eye; That we fought the battle bravely; and Too innocent forcoquetry--too fond for idle when the day was done,
scorning! Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath O friend, I fear the lightest heart makes the setting sun.
sometimes heaviest mourning! And 'midst the dead and dying were some Tell her the last night of my life (for ere grown old in wars--
this moon be risen The death-wound on their gallant breasts, My body will be out of pain-my soul be the last of many scars;
out of prison) But some were young, and suddenly beheld I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the life's morn decline;
yellow sunlight shine And one had come from Bingen--fair On the vine-clad hills of Bingen-fair BinBingen on the Rhine.
gen on the Rhine !
Tell my mother that her other sons shall I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, comfort her old age,
or seemed to hear, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought The German songs we used to sing in chorus his home a cage;
sweet and clear; For my father was a soldier, and, even as a And down the pleasant river, and up the child,
slanting hill, My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of That echoing chorus sounded, through the struggles fierce and wild;
evening calm and still; And when he died, and left us to divide his And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we scanty hoard,
passed with friendly talk I let them take whate'er they would, but Down many a path beloved of yore, and kept my father's sword;
well-remembered walk; And with boyish love I hung it where the And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly bright light used to shine,
in mine; On the cottage-wall at Bingen-calm Bin. But we'll meet no more at Bingen--loved gen on the Rhine !
Bingen on the Rhine!”
His voice grew faint and hoarser; his grasp | And the soft moon rose up slowly, and was childish weak;
calmly she looked down His eyes put on a dying look; he sighed, on the red sand of the battle-field, with and ceased to speak.
bloody corpses strown; His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale of life had fled;
light seemed to shine, The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land As it shone on distant Bingen-fair Bingen --was dead !
on the Rhine !
Но MRS. NORTON.
THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE.
THERE's a white stone placed upon yonder One heart that in secret had kept his name, tomb
Was claimed by the soldier lover. Beneath is a soldier lying; (plume,
But the cloud of strife came upon the sky; The death-wound came amid sword and When banner and ball were flying.
He left his sweet home for battle, (cry,
Left his young child's lisp for the loud warYet now he sleeps, the turf on his breast, And the cannon's long death rattle. By wet wild flowers surrounded;
He came again-but an altered man: The church shadow falls o'er the place of
The path of the grave was before him, Where
the steps of his childhood And the smile that he wore was cold and bounded.
For the shadow of death hung o'er him. There were tears that fell from manly eyes, There was woman's gentle weeping,
He spoke of victory-spoke of cheer:
These are words that are vainly spoken And the wailing of age and infant cries,
To the childless mother or orphan's ear, O'er the grave where he lies sleeping.
Or the widow whose heart is broken. He had left his home in his spirit's pride, With his father's sword and blessing;
A helmet and sword are engraved on the He stood with the valiant side by side,
stone, His country's wrongs redressing.
Half hidden by yonder willow;
There he sleeps, whose death in battle was He came again in the light of his fame,
won, When the red campaign was over;
But who died on his own home pillow!
L. E. LANDON.
THERE's beauty in the deep :-- That sends its loud clear note abroad, The wave is bluer than the sky;
Or winds its softness through the flood, And though the light shine bright on high, Echoes through groves with coral gay, More softly do the sea gems glow
And dies on spongy banks away : That sparkle in the depths below;
There's music in the deep. The rainbow's tints are only made
There's quiet in the deep :When on the waters they are laid;
Above, let tides and tempests ravé, And sun and moon most sweetly shine
And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave; Upon the ocean's level brine:
Above, let care and fear contend
With sin and sorrow to the end;-
Here, far beneath the tainted foam
That frets above our peaceful home, Nor in the whispering, shelly shore;- We dream in joy, and wake in love, They are but earthly sounds, that tell Nor know the rage that yells above: But little of the sea nymph's shell,
There's quiet in the deep.