HERE come we to our close,-for that which follows

Is but the tale of dull, unvaried misery. Steep crags and headlong linns may court the pencil,

Like sudden haps, dark plots, and strange adventures;

Arm and up! the morning beam
Hath call'd the rustic to his team,
Hath call'd the falc'ner to the lake,
Hath call'd the huntsman to the brake;
The early student ponders o'er
His dusty tomes of ancient lore.
Soldier, wake! thy harvest, fame;