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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 hath gain’d by thee, Thou first and last of fields ! King-making

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 feetBut, 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

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,


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


If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could


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


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 the fierce native daring which instils

The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each

clansman's ears!

* ALBYN'S HILLS. -The Highlands of Scotland.

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



BORN 1777.
DIED 1814.


WRITINGS:- The Pleasures of Hope; Gertrude of

Wyoming; Theodoric.

Exile of Erin.

HERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill : For his country he sighed, 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 fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of “ Erin-go-bragh." +

“Sad is my fate," said the heart-broken stranger :

66 The wild deer and wolf to a 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!'

* Ireland.

† Ireland for ever.

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