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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 hath gain'd by thee, Thou first and last of fields ! King-making
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
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 ; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a
rising knell !
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 feetBut, 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 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 roused the vengeance blood alone could
quell : He rush'd into the field, and foremost, fighting,
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
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could
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 instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each
clansman's ears! * ALBYN'S HILLS.—The Highlands of Scotland.
And Ardennes waves above them her green
leares, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if anght inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave.—alas !
Which now beneath them, but above shall
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living ralour, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold
Last noon—beheld them fall of lasty life,
Last ere_in beanty's circle proadly gay, The midnight-brought the signal sound of
strife, The mon—the marshalling in arms, the
dar, Battle's magnificently-stern array! The thunder-dlouds dose oer it, which,
when rent, The earth is cover'd thick with other day,
Which her own day shall cover, heap'd and
1 horse, -friend, foes —in one red burial
THOMAS CAMPBELL, LL.D.
PRINCIPAL WRITINGS :-The Pleasures of Hope; Gertrude of
Exile of Erit.*
WHERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill : - For his country he sighed, when at twilight
repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of “ Erin-go-bragh." +
“Sad is my fate," said the heart-broken stranger :
“ The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the
sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of “ Erin-go-bragh!'
† Ireland for ever.