THE EVE BEFORE WATERLOO.

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave

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 !

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of dis

tress,

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 evermore 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 "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!

which fills

But with the breath

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 clans-
man'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, heaped and

pent,

Rider and horse - friend, foe-in one red burial blent!

MARCH.

-Lord Byron.

The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest;

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The plowboy is whooping-anon—anon;
There's joy in the mountains,
There's life in the fountains;

Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone!

-William Wordsworth.

GETTYSBURG ADDRESS.

(NOVEMBER 19, 1863.)

Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether