Of untold ages first began their course,
He steadily measured every golden grain,
That he might render to the Eternal Mind
That ruled above a faithful record still
Of every precious treasure meted out
To the dark gulf below.

O human hearts!

So fickle and so thoughtless-glad to-day
To have the moments fly, to-morrow grieved
Te see them go so fleetly-heed, I pray,
The vision that I saw. Fret not Time's ear
With vain and weak appeals, but rather take
A lesson from his teaching. Do your work,
What'er in life it be, as he doth his,
With purpose firm, and with unfaltering zeal.

THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO

BY LORD BYRON

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 men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked 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 a 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 windowed 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 deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well

Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:
He rushed 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

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 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 thronged the citizens with terror dumb,

Or whispering, with white lips, "The foe! They come! they come!"

And wild and high the "Camerons' 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!

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!

ODE ON SAINT CECILIA'S DAY

BY JOHN DRYDEN

From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony,

This universal frame began:
When Nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay

And could not heave her head,

The tuneful voice was heard from high,

Arise, ye more than dead!

Then cold and hot and moist and dry
In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey.

From harmony, from heavenly harmony
This universal frame began:

From harmony to harmony

Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.

What passion can not Music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell

His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound.

Less than a God they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell

That spoke so sweetly and so well.

What passion can not Music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms,

With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.

The double double double beat
Of the thundering drum
Cries: "Hark! the foes come;
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!"

The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs and desperation,

Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains, and height of passion

For the fair disdainful dame.

But oh! what art can teach,

What human voice can reach

The sacred organ's praise?

Notes inspiring holy love,

Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.