By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger2 neighed

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steed to battle driven, And, louder than the bolts 3 of heaven,

Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of purpled snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 4

Shout in their sulphurous canopy.5

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave !
Wave, Munich ! 6 all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet;
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

Campbell. 1 Linden, or Hohenlinden, lies about 1800, between the French, or

twenty miles to the east of Franks, and the combined AusMunich.

trians and Bavarians, some of 2 Charger, war-horse.

whom were Huns (Hungarians). 8 Bolts of heaven, thunderbolts.

The French were victorious. 4 Where furious Frank, &c. This battle, 5 Sulphurous annopy, clouds of gun

of which Campbell was an eye powder smoke.
witness, was fought December 3, 1 6 Manich, capital of Bavaria.



Summer eve is gone and past,
Summer dew is falling fast;
I have wandered all the day,
Do not bid me further stray !
Gentle hearts, of gentle kin,
Take the Wandering harper in!

Bid not me, in battle-field,
Buckler lift, or broadsword wield !
All my strength and all my art
Is to touch the gentle heart,
With the wizard 2 notes that ring
From the peaceful minstrel-string.

I have song of war for knight-
Lay of love for lady bright-
Fairy tale to lull the heir-
Goblin 3 grim the maids to scare.
Dark the night, and long till day,
Do not bid me further stray !

Rokeby's lords of martial fame,
I can count them name by name;
Legend of their line there be,
Known to few, but known to me;
If you honour Rokeby's kin,
Take the wandering harper in !

Rokeby's lords had fair regard
For the harp and for the bard ;
Baron's race throve 4 never well,
Where the curse of minstrel fell;
If you love that noble kin,
Take the weary harper in !




1 The Harper, or Minstrel, the poet and such an occupation less necessary,

musician of ancient times, who and, in the reign of Elizabeth, traversed the country singing of those who practised it were love and war. He usually accom denounced as rogues, vagabonds, panied his songs with the harp or and beggars. other instrument, and was every- ? Wizard, enchanting. where an honoured guest. The 3 Goblin, a mischievous spirit. introduction of printing rendered | 4 Throvo, prospered.

DEATH OF 'LITTLE JIM, THE COLLIER'S CHILD. The cottage was a thatched one, its outside old and mean ; Yet everything within that cot was wondrous neat and clean ; The night was dark and stormy—the wind was blowing wild; A patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her childA little, worn-out creature—his once-bright eyes grown dim : It was a Collier's only child—they called him 'Little Jim.'

And oh! to see the briny tears fast flowing down her cheek, As she offered up a prayer in thought !-she was afraid to

speak, Lest she might waken one she loved far dearer than her life ; For she had all a mother's heart, that wretched Collier's wife. With hands uplifted, see! she kneels beside the sufferer's bed, And prays that God will spare her boy, and take herself

instead : She gets her answer from the child—soft fall these words

from him : Mother! the angels do so smile, and beckon Little Jim !

'I have no pain, dear mother, now; but, oh! I am so dry;1 Just moisten poor Jim's lips once more; and, mother, do not

cry!' With gentle, trembling haste, she held a tea-cup to his lipsHe smiled to thank her-then he took three little tiny sips, “Tell father, when he comes from work, I said “good-night!”

to him ; And, mother, now I'll go to sleep.' . . Alas! poor little Jim ! She saw that he was dying! The child she loved so dear Had uttered the last words she'd ever wish to hear.



The cottage door is opened—the Collier's step is heard ;
The father and the mother meet, but neither speak a word;
He felt that all. was over-he knew the child was dead !
He took the candle in his hand, and stood beside the bed ;
His quivering lip gave token of the grief he'd fain conceal ;
And see, the mother joins him!-the stricken couple kneel ;
With hearts bowed down by sorrow, they humbly ask of Him
In heaven, once more that they may meet their own poor
Little Jim!'

Farmer. 1 Dry, thirsty.


I love it, I love it ; and who shall dare
To chide me for loving the old Arm-chair ?
I've treasured it long as a sainted 1 prize;
I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs.
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.

Would ye learn the spell ? A mother sat there;
And a sacred thing is that old Arm-chair.
In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat, with listening ear ;
And gentle words that mother would give;
To fit me to die, and teach me to live..
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old Arm-chair.
I sat and watched her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on; but the last one sped-
My idol was shattered ; my earth-star fled;
I learned how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old Arm-chair.
'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow :
'Twas there she nursed me ; 'twas there she died;
And memory flows with lava 2 tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old Arm-chair.

Eliza Cook. 1 Sainted, sacred.

crater of a volcano during an erup2 Lava, burning. Lava is the molten tion; the burning griefs of memory

substance which issues from the are likened to a stream of lava.


Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove !

Thou messenger of spring !
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,

And woods thy welcome sing.

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