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;-'t was 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 window'd niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftian; 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 roused 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 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 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 instills

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 valor, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall molder 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 marshaling 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-heap'd and pent,
Rider and horse-friend, foe-in one red burial blent!

-Byron.

CLXVI. CATILINE'S DEFIANCE.

CONSCRIPT Fathers,

I do not rise to waste the night in words;
Let that plebeian talk; 'tis not my trade;

But here I stand for right—let him show proofs-
For Roman right; though none, it seems, dare stand
To take their share with me. Ay, cluster there!
Cling to your master, judges, Romans, slaves!
His charge is false;-I dare him to his proofs
You have my answer. I must be gone.

But this I will avow, that I have scorn'd,

And still do scorn, to hide my sense of wrong!
Not he who brands my forehead, breaks my sword,
Or lays the bloody scourge upon my back,
Can wrong me half so much as he who shuts
The gates of honor on me-turning out

The Roman from his birthright; and, for what?
To fling your offices to every slave!

Vipers, that creep where man disdains to climb,
And, having wound their loathsome track to the top
Of this huge, moldering monument of Rome,
Hang hissing at the nobler man below!

Come, consecrated Lictors, from your thrones;
Fling down your scepters; take the rod and axe,
And make the murder as you make the law!

Banish'd from Rome! What's banish'd, but set free
From daily contact of the things I loathe?
"Tried and convicted traitor!" Who says this?
Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head?

Banish'd! I thank you for 't. It breaks my chain!
I held some slack allegiance till this hour;
But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords;
I scorn to count what feelings, wither'd hopes,
Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs,
I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,

To leave you in your lazy dignities.

But here I stand and scoff you! here, I.fling
Hatred and full defiance in your face!
Your Consul's merciful-for this all thanks:
He dares not touch a hair of Catiline!
"Traitor!" I go; but I return. This-trial!
Here I devote your Senate! I've had wrongs

To stir a fever in the blood of age,

Or make the infant's sinew strong as steel.

This day's the birth of sorrows! This hour's work

Will breed proscriptions! Look to your hearths, my lords!
For there, henceforth, shall sit, for household gods,
Shapes hot from Tartarus!-all shames and crimes!
Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn;
Suspicion, poisoning the brother's cup;
Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe,
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones;
Till Anarchy comes down on you like night,
And Massacre seals Rome's eternal grave!

I go; but not to leap the gulf alone:

I go; but, when I come, 't will be the burst

Of ocean in the earthquake-rolling back

In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well!
You build my funeral-pile; but your best blood

Shall quench its flame! Back, slaves! I will return!

-Croly.

CLXVII. THE MISER AND PLUTUS.

THE wind is high, the window shakes,
With sudden start the miser wakes!

Along the silent room he stalks;

Looks back and trembles as he walks!

Each lock and every bolt he tries,
In every crack and corner pries;
Then opes his chest, with treasure stored,
And stands in rapture o'er his hoard.

But now with sudden qualms possessed,
He wrings his hands, he beats his breast;
By conscience stung he wildly stares,
And thus his guilty soul declares:

"Had the deep earth her store confined,

This heart had known sweet peace of mind;

But virtues 's sold! Good heavens! what price
Can recompense the pangs of vice?

"O bane of good! seducing cheat!
Can man, weak man, thy power defeat?
Gold banished honor from the mind,
And only left the name behind;

"Gold sowed the earth with every ill-
Gold taught the murderer's sword to kill
'Twas gold instructed coward hearts
In treachery's more pernicious arts.
Who can recount the mischiefs o'er?
Virtue resides on earth no more."

CLXVIII.-SHORT SELECTIONS.

SLEEP.

How many thousand of my poorest subjects,
Are at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep,
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eye-lids down
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

Why, rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,

And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,
Than in the perfumed chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,

And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody?

O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile,

In loathsome beds; and leav'st the kingly couch,
A watch-case, or a common 'larum-bell?

Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude, imperious surge,

And in the visitation of the winds,

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deafening clamor in the slippery clouds, That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?