Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
While our slumberous spells assail you,
Dream not, with the rising sun,

Bugles here shall sound reveillie.
Sleep! the deer is in his den;

Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
Sleep! nor dream, in yonder glen,
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
Think not of the rising sun;
For, at dawning to assail you,
Here no bugles sound reveillie.

The Exile of Erin.

Scott.

THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sigh'd, when, at twilight, repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill:

But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion;
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once, in the fervour of youth's warm emotion,
He the bold anthem of ERIN GO BRAGH!
sang

Sad is my fate!"-said the heart-broken stranger— 'The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee;

But I have no refuge from famine and danger:

A home and a country remain not to me! Never again, in the green sunny bowers,

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours; Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,

And strike to the numbers of ERIN GO BRAGH!

"Erin! my country! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore!
But, alas! in a far-foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends that can meet me no more! Oh! cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me

In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me!—

They died to defend me!-or live to deplore!

'Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood?

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ?

Ah! my sad soul, long abandon'd by pleasure!
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall without measure;
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall!
"Yet-all its fond recollections suppressing-
One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw:-
Erin! an exile bequeathes thee-his blessing!
Land of my forefathers!—ERIN GO BRAGH!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean!
And thy harp-striking_bards sing aloud with devotion,
ERIN MAVOURNIN! ERIN GO BRAGH!"

On the Plain of Marathon.

Campbell.

WHERE'ER we tread, 'tis haunted, holy ground!
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould!
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around,
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told,
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon:
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold,
Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone:
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares grey Marathon.

The sun-the soil-but not the slave the same-
Unchanged in all, except its foreign lord,

Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame:
The Battle-field-where Persia's victim-horde
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword,
As on the morn to distant Glory dear,
When Marathon became a magic word—
Which utter'd-to the hearer's eye appear

The camp-the host-the fight-the conqueror's career!
The flying Mede-his shaftless broken bow!
The fiery Greek-his red pursuing spear!
Mountains above-Earth's-Ocean's plain below!
Death in the front-Destruction in the rear!
Such was the scene-what now remaineth here?
What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear?
The rifled urn-the violated mound-

The dust-thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around!

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
While our slumberous spells assail you,
Dream not, with the rising sun,

Bugles here shall sound reveillie.
Sleep! the deer is in his den;

Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
Sleep! nor dream, in yonder glen,
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
Think not of the rising sun;
For, at dawning to assail you,
Here no bugles sound reveillie.

The Exile of Erin.

Scott.

THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sigh'd, when, at twilight, repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill:

But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion;
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once, in the fervour of youth's warm emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of ERIN GO BRAGH!

"Sad is my fate!"-said the heart-broken stranger— The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger:

A home and a country remain not to me! Never again, in the green sunny bowers,

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours; Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,

And strike to the numbers of ERIN GO BRAGH!

"Erin! my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore! But, alas! in a far-foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends that can meet me no more!
Oh! cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me

In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me?
Never again shall my brothers embrace me!—

They died to defend me!—or live to deplore!

"Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood?
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?

Ah! my sad soul, long abandon'd by pleasure!
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall without measure;
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall!
"Yet-all its fond recollections suppressing-
One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw:-
Erin!-an exile bequeathes thee—his blessing!
Land of my forefathers!-ERIN GO BRAGH!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean!
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,
ERIN MAVOURNIN! ERIN GO BRAGH!"

On the Plain of Marathon.

Campbell.

WHERE'ER we tread, 'tis haunted, holy ground!
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould!
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around,
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told,
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon:
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold,
Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone:
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares grey Marathon.

The sun-the soil-but not the slave the same-
Unchanged in all, except its foreign lord,

Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame:
The Battle-field-where Persia's victim-horde
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword,
As on the morn to distant Glory dear,
When Marathon became a magic word—
Which utter'd-to the hearer's eye appear

The camp-the host-the fight-the conqueror's career!
The flying Mede-his shaftless broken bow!
The fiery Greek-his red pursuing spear!
Mountains above-Earth's-Ocean's plain below!
Death in the front-Destruction in the rear!
Such was the scene-what now remaineth here?
What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear?
The rifled urn-the violated mound-

The dust-thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around!

Yet to the remnants of thy, splendour past,
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng;
Long shall the voyager, with the Ionian blast,
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song;
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore;
Boast of the aged! lesson of the young!
Which sages venerate, and bards adore,
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore.

The parted bosom clings to wonted home, If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth; He that is lonely, hither let him roam, And gaze complacent on congenial earth. Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth! But he whom sadness sootheth may abide, And scarce regret the region of his birth, When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died.

Lochinvar.

Byron.

Он, young

Lochinvar is come out of the west!

Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And, save his good broad-sword, he weapon had none; He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone!

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!

He stayed not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Esk river where ford there was none-
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar!

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,

Among bridemen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all!
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword-
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word—
'Oh come ye in peace here, or come ye in war?

Or to dance at our bridal? young Lord Lochinvar!"