"True dignity is his, whose tranquil mind
Virtue has raised above the things below;
Who, every hope and fear to Heaven resign'd,
Shrinks not, though Fortune aim her deadliest blow!".
This strain, from 'midst the rocks, was heard to flow
In solemn sounds. Now beam'd the evening star;
And from embattled clouds, emerging slow,
Cynthia came riding on her silver car;

And hoary mountain-cliffs shone faintly from afar.

Beattie.

Glenara.

OH! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?-
'Tis the Chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire and her people are call'd to her bier.
Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud;
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around:
They march'd all in silence-they look'd to the ground.
In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor,
To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar:
Now here let us place the grey-stone of her cairn-

66

'Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.

'And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse,

Why fold ye your mantles? why cloud ye your brows?"
So spake the rude chieftain: no answer is made,
But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd.

"I dream'd of my lady, I dream'd of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud; "And empty that shroud, and that coffin, did seem; Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,
When the shroud was unclosed, and no body was seen;
Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn-
'Twas the youth that had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn—

“I dream'd of my lady, I dream'd of her grief,
I dream'd that her lord was a barbarous chief;
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem:
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my

dream!

1

In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne:
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!

The Death of Marmion.

WITH fruitless labour, Clara bound,
And strove to stanch, the gushing wound;
The Monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers.
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear;
And that the priest he could not hear,
For that she ever sung,

Campbell.

In the lost battle, borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!"
So the notes rung;-
"Avoid thee, Fiend!-with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand!—
Oh look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine!

Oh, think on faith and bliss!-
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this."-
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swell'd the gale,
And-STANLEY! was the cry;—
A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye:

With dying hand, above his head
He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted " Victory!

Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!"
Were the last words of Marmion.

Sir Walter Scott.

The Burial of Sir John Moore.

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our Hero we buried.

We buried him darkly,―at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moon-beams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay-like a warrior taking his rest-
With his martial cloak around him!

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow-

How the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

"Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;

But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him."

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory! We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him-alone with his glory!

The Battle of Hohenlinden.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,

When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery!

Wolfe.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven!
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven!
And, louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery!

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly!

"Tis morn-but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy!

The combat deepens-On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!—

Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet;
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre!

On the Downfall of Poland.

Campbell.

O SACRED Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile,
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile,
When leagued Oppression pour'd to Northern wars
Her whisker'd pandours and her fierce hussars,
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet-horn;
Tumultuous Horror brooded o'er her van,
Presaging wrath to Poland-and to man!

Warsaw's last champion, from her height, survey'd,
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid:

"O Heaven!" he cried, "my bleeding country save!Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?

Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! our COUNTRY yet remains!
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high!
And swear, for her to live!—with her to die!

He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd
His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd;
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm!
Low, murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
REVENGE, OR DEATH!-the watchword and reply;
Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm!-

In vain-alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank your vollied thunder flew : Oh! bloodiest picture in the book of Time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime! Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her wo! Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear, Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career; Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shriek'd-as KOSCIUSKO fell!

The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there, Tumultuous murder shook the midnight airOn Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below. The storm prevails! the rampart yields awayBursts the wild cry of horror and dismay! Hark! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call! Earth shook!-red meteors flash'd along the sky! And conscious Nature shudder'd at the cry!

O righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave,
Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save?
Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod,
That smote the foes of Zion and of God?

That crush'd proud Ammon, when his iron car
Was yoked in wrath, and thunder'd from afar?
Where was the storm that slumber'd, till the host
Of blood-stain'd Pharaoh left their trembling coast;
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow,
And heaved an ocean on their march below?