Yon little stream hard by ;

They burn'd his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly:

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head!

"With fire and sword, the country round

66

Was wasted far and wide;

And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby died!—

But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

They say, it was a shocking sight

After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun!

But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.

Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won,

And our good prince Eugene."

"Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"

Said little Wilhelmine.

"Nay-Nay-my little girl," quoth he,

It was a famous victory!

And every body praised the Duke

Who this great fight did win."

But what good came of it at last?”
Quoth little Peterkin.

“Why, that I cannot tell," said he,

66

But 'twas a famous victory!"

Song of Fitz Eustace.

WHERE shall the lover rest

Whom the Fates sever

From his true maiden's breast
Parted for ever?-

Southey

Where through groves deep and high
Sounds the sad billow,
Where early violets die
Under the willow

Soft shall be his pillow!

There through the summer days
Cool streams are laving,
There while the tempest plays,
Scarce are boughs waving;
There thy rest shalt thou take,
Parted for ever!

Never again to wake,

Never!-oh, never!

Where shall the traitor rest-
He! the deceiver,
Who would win woman's breast,
Ruin and leave her?-

In the lost battle

Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle

With groans of the dying,
There shall he be lying.—

Her wings shall the eagle flap
O'er the false-hearted!

His warm blood the wolf shall lap,

Ere life be parted!

Shame and dishonour sit

By his grave ever!

Blessings shall hallow it

Never!-oh, never!

The Field of Waterloo.

STOP! for thy tread is on an Empire's dust!
An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust?
Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so.
As the ground was before, thus let it be.—
How that red rain-hath made the harvest grow!
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee,
Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?

Scoti

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!

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:
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 that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With their fierce native daring, which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years;

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!
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 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.

The Smuggler.

AND think ye now, ye sons of ease,
The smuggler's life is rough and rude;
'Mid bawling winds, and roaring seas,
He lives a man of cheerless mood?

Ye little guess how many a smile
To Fortune's rugged form we owe!
Ye little guess, the son of toil

Knows sweeter ease than you can know!
"Now, bless thee, girl! the wind is fair
And fresh, and may not long be so;
We've little time, you know, to spare;
So, gie's a buss, and let us go!"
The smuggler cries. A wight is he
Fit for his trade: so rough and rude,
He looks like something of the sea-
He is not of the landsman's brood!
His stature's big; his hazel eye

Glistens beneath his bushy hair; His face is of a sunny die,

His hands his bosom, that is bare:

His voice is hoarse, and sounding too: He has been wont to talk with winds And thunders, and the boisterous crew Of waves, whose moods he little minds.

His little, hardy infant son

Sits crowing on his lusty neck:
His wife a fair and tender one-
Murmurs and weeps upon his cheek:
He must not stay!-the treasures dear
He hurries from him with a sigh:
His rugged soul disdains a tear-
Not but he has one in his eye!

The sail is set, she clears the shore,
She feels the wind, and scuds away;

Heels on her little keel, and o'er

The jostling waves appears to play.

This is the smuggler's hardy crew:
The mate, his tall and strapping son;
Another active youth or two;

Besides an old and childless man,

Who many a storm and wreck had seen;
His head as hoary as the foam

Of the vex'd wave. He once had been
Another man!-had now no home,