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WRITTEN ON THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.

YE are gone to your narrow beds,
Ye forms of the martyred Brave !
The green grass sod springs o'er your heads,
And the wind blows round your grave.
But the green turf that blooms above
Is watered by the tears of love;
And the wild wind that wanders by,
Is mingled with affection's sigh.

Oh! when ye sank on your bed of death,
No gentle form hung over you ;
No fond eye caught your parting breath,
Or shrunk in anguish from the view !
But o'er you, in that hour of fate,
Bent the dark Gaul's revengeful form ;
And the stern glance of ruthless hate
Gleamed, dreadful, ʼmid the hurrying storm.

No mourning dirge did o'er you swell,
Nor winding sheet your limbs enclosed ;
For you was tolled no passing bell;
No tomb was raised where you reposed,
For your bed of death was the battle-ground,
'Twas there they heaped your funeral mound,
And all unhallowed was your grave,
Save by the ashes of the brave.

Then to the warriors' memory,
A monument of love we'll raise ;
And veneration's heart-felt sigh
Shall waft their fame to distant days.
Daughters of Albion ! swell the strain !
More loudly raise the funeral song,
And, wide o'er all the fatal plain,
The record of their deeds prolong!

Ye fixed, oh ye brave! when for us ye died,
On every heart an endless claim;
When ye sank in the battle’s blood-red tide,
Ye bought by your death a deathless name;
More great than the warriors of ages gone,–
More great than the heroes of Marathon :
They from one land, a tyrant hurled ;-
Ye crushed the tyrant of the world.
The hour that stayed your course for ever,
Checked many a gay heart's joyous swell ;
Sweet hopes were nipt, to blossom never,
When, smote in Glory's lap, you fell.

The patriot to the hero's claim,
Bows his proud soul, with grief opprest;
But there are those, with whom his name
Is still more loved, more fondly blest ;
For wheresoe'er we cast our eyes,
This wide extended plain around,
The Father, Brother, Husband lies
Beneath the undulating mound.

How many an eye, ye truly brave!
Has thanked you for the lives you gave !
Ye fondly loved ! how many a tear,
Has witnessed to your virtues here !
Call not the warrior's grave unblest,
Though ’mid this silent solitude,
The grey stone rise not o'er his breast,
Nor holy pile may here be viewed.

There is a charm more sweet,-more pure
Than human art has ever thrown;
Yes, there are records, more secure
Than marble bust, or sculptured stone ;-
The gentle sigh of sorrowing love,
The hapless mourner's silent tear,
Shall here that better guerdon prove,
That holier calm, shall whisper here.

When Egypt's tombs shall all be rent,
And earth's proud temples swept away,
Your deeds,-a deathless monument !

Shall guard your glory from decay.
Courier.

A FAREWELL.

BY LORD BYRON.

My boat is on the shore,
And
my

bark is on the sea;
Yet ere I go, Tom Moore,

Here's a double health to thee.

Here's a sigh for those I love,

And a smile for those I hate,
And, whatever sky's above,

Here's a heart for any fate.

Though the ocean roar around me,

It still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,

It hath springs that may be won.

Were it the last drop in the well,

As I gasped upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirits fell,

'Tis to thee that I would drink.

In that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour
Should be Peace to thee and thine,

And a health to thee, Tom Moore !
Morning Chronicle.

ADDRESSED TO A LADY, ON READING ROMEO AND JULIET.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Of love and sorrow, 'tis a peerless tale !

Then press it softly to thy gentle breast ;
I'll share the fear that makes thy pure cheek pale;

I'll guess the wish that may not be confessed.
Unhappy pair!-And yet to them was given
That earthly joy which tasteth most of heaven.
Oh! sweet and bitter, let our mixt tears flow,
Where, on the grave of Love, the drooping violets grow.

To mortals there is given a fleeting life :

A life !-Ah! no; a wild, vain, hurrying dream !-
A tempest of pride—passion_sin_and strife !

A deep, dark, restless, ever-foaming stream!
When fortune lifts us high, or sinks us low,
We feel the motion_know not where we go;
Love only, like the oil upon the sea,
Gives to man's tossing soul repose and liberty.

'Tis true, that they who love, are seldom born

To a smooth destiny.--Love buds in peace,
But foulest wizards in the air have sworn

To blast its beauty ere the leaves increase.
The lovers dare not look-fiends' watch their eyes ;-
They dare not speak—fiends intercept their sighs ;-
A spell is on them—mute-o'er mastering ;-
Dumb sorrow o'er them waves her dark, depressing wing.

But let the faint heart yield him as he may,

Danger sits powerless on Love's steady breast ;
The lovers shrink not in the evil day ;-

They are afflicted_but are not opprest.

To die together, or victorious live-
That first and holiest vow, 'tis theirs to give ;
United !—Though in fetters—they are free!
They care not though the grave their bridal bed should be !

It may be, that if love's expanding flower

Is forced to close before the storm's keen breath,
That closing may protract the blooming hour,

Which is so short in all that suffers death.
The silence, and the sorrow, and the pain,
May nourish that which they attack in vain.
The lowly flame burns longest.-Humble sadness
Is kindlier to love's growth than free unvaried gladness.

But oh! how glorious shone their ruling star,

Which carried them with budding loves to heaven; Whom angels welcomed in bright realms afar,

With a full cup, which scarce to taste was given, While any remnant of terrestrial sin Had power to stain the holy draught within ! They died :-Young love stood by them calmly sighing, And fanned, with his soft wing, the terrors of their dying.

Read not of Juliet, and her Romeo,

With tragic trembling, and uplifted hair;
Be mild, fair maid, and gentle in thy woe,

As in their death were that most innocent pair.
Upon the tomb o' the Capulets there gleams
No torch light—but a moon of tender beams.
Then hate not love, because a Juliet died,

But seek to sleep, like her, by a true lover's side.
Blackwood's Magazine.

A. W. S.

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