Did ye not hear it?-No-'twas but the wind, On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined; And nearer-clearer-deadlier than before! Within a windowed 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 deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell ; He rushed 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 Blushed 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, And wild and high the 'Camerons' Gathering' rose! ears! And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 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 covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse,-friend-foe,-in one red burial blent! LII Lord Byron. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, 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, But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed 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, But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck 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, and we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone with his glory. Charles Wolfe. LIII THE BENDED BOW THERE was heard the sound of a coming foe, 'Heard you not the battle horn?— Arm! ere Britain's turf grow red!' And the reaper arm'd, like a freeman's son; 'Hunter! leave the mountain-chase! Take the falchion from its place! Let the wolf go free to-day, Leave him for a nobler prey ! Let the deer ungall'd sweep by, Arm thee! Britain's foes are nigh!' And the hunter arm'd ere the chase was done; 'Chieftain quit the joyous feast! And the chieftain arm'd, and the horn was blown; 'Prince! thy father's deeds are told, Foes are on thy native sea Give our bards a tale of thee!' And the prince came arm'd, like a leader's son; 'Mother! stay not thou thy boy! Britain calls the strong in heart!' And the bended bow and the voice passed on; And the bards made song for a battle won. Felicia Hemans. LIV ENGLAND'S DEAD SON of the Ocean Isle! Where sleep your mighty dead? Go, stranger! track the deep- On Egypt's burning plains, By the pyramid o'erswayed, With fearful power the noonday reigns, And the palm trees yield no shade; But let the angry sun From heaven look fiercely red, The hurricane hath might Along the Indian shore, And far by Ganges' banks at night Is heard the tiger's roar;— |