Field of Waterloo.

Byron.

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?

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;

lt hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it ?-No; 't was but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;

n with the dance! let joy be unconfined!
o sleep till morn when youth and pleasure meet
chase the glowing hours with flying feet-

At hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more;
Aif the clouds its echo would repeat ;

A nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Armarm!-it is!-it is!-the cannon's opening roar !

Within a window's 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 rous'd 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 clatttering 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 beating 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 ome, 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!

Love of Country.

Sir Walter Scott.

BREATHES-there a man, with soul so dead,

Who never to-himself hath said

"This is

my own - my native land!". Whose heart has ne'er within-him burn'd, As home his footsteps he hath turn'd From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For-him no minstrel-raptures swell:

High though his titles proud his name -
Boundless-his-wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles - power and pelf,
The wretch,-concentred all in self-
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go-down,
To the vile-dust from-whence he
Unwept unhonour'd and unsung.

O Caledonia! stern and wild,

Meet nurse for a poetic child!

sprung,

Land of brown heath and shaggy wood -
Land of the mountain and the flood.

Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band

That knits me to thy rugged strand!

The Spanish Armada.

Macaulay.

ATTEND, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise: I sing of the thrice-famous deeds she wrought in ancient days,

When that great fleet-invincible against her bore, in vain, The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts in Spain. It was about the lovely close of a warm summer's day, There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth bay;

The crew had seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's

isle,

At earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many a mile: At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace; And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase.

Forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along the wall; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecombe's lofty hall; Many a light fishing-bark put out, to pry along the coast; And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a post.

With his white hair, unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes;

Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums.

The yeomen, round the market-cross, make clear an ample space,

For there behoves him to set-up the standard of her grace: And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, Asslow, upon the labouring wind, the royal blazon swells,

I