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 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,
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 thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips-The foe! They
come! they come!'

And wild and high the 'Camerons' 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!

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 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,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

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,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

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,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

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,
There was sent through Britain a bended bow;
And a voice was pour'd on the free winds far,
As the land rose up at the sign of war.

'Heard you not the battle horn?—
Reaper! leave thy golden corn!
Leave it for the birds of heaven,
Swords must flash, and spears be riven!
Leave it for the winds to shed-

Arm! ere Britain's turf grow red!'

And the reaper arm'd, like a freeman's son;
And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

'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;
And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

'Chieftain quit the joyous feast!
Stay not till the song hath ceased:
Though the mead be foaming bright,
Though the fires give ruddy light,
Leave the hearth, and leave the hall-
Arm thee! Britain's foes must fall.'

And the chieftain arm'd, and the horn was blown;
And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

'Prince! thy father's deeds are told,
In the bower, and in the hold!
Where the goatherd's lay is sung,
Where the minstrel's harp is strung,

Foes are on thy native sea

Give our bards a tale of thee!'

And the prince came arm'd, like a leader's son;
And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

'Mother! stay not thou thy boy!
He must learn the battle's joy,
Sister bring the sword and spear,
Give thy brother words of cheer!
Maiden! bid thy lover part,

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?
Show me what high and stately pile
Is reared o'er Glory's bed.

Go, stranger! track the deep-
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, not wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.

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,
Unfelt by those whose task is done!—
There slumber England's dead.

The hurricane hath might

Along the Indian shore,

And far by Ganges' banks at night

Is heard the tiger's roar;—