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all over in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart-Liberty and union, now and for ever, one and inseparable!

IX.

The Field of Waterloo.-BYRON.

STOP!-for thy tread is on an empire's dust!
An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?
Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
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 has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields! king-making vic-
tory?

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 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 windowed niche of that high hall
Sat 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 nights 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! But with 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 clans-
man's ears!

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 marshalling 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!

X.

Outalissi's Death Song.-CAMPBELL.

"And I could weep"-the Oneida chief
His descant wildly thus began;
"But that I may not stain with grief
The death song of my father's son,
Or bow this head in wo;

For by my wrongs and by my wrath!
To-morrow Areouski's breath,

That fires yon heaven with storms of death,
Shall light us to the foe:

And we shall share, my Christian boy,
The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!

"But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep,

The spirits of the white man's heaven

Forbid not thee to weep:

Nor will the Christian host,

Nor will thy father's spirit grieve,
To see thee on the battle eve,
Lamenting, take a mournful leave
Of her that loved thee most;
She was the rainbow to thy sight!
Thy sun-thy heaven-of lost delight.

"To-morrow let us do or die !-
But when the bolt of death is hurled,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world?
Seek we thy once loved home?

The hand is gone that cropped its flowers!
Unheard their clock repeats its hours!

Cold is the hearth within their bowers!
And should we thither roam,
Its echoes, and its empty tread,

Would sound like voices from the dead!

"Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nations quaffed, And by my side, in battle true,

A thousand warriors drew the shaft?
Ah! there, in desolation cold,

The desert serpent dwells alone,

Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones, themselves to ruin grown,

Like me, are death-like old!

Then seek we not their camp-for there-
The silence dwells of my despair!

"But hark, the trump!-to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears!
Even from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears
Amidst the clouds that round us roll!
He bids my soul for battle thirst—
He bids me dry-the last!-the first!-
The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul!

Because I may not stain with grief
The death song of an Indian chief."

XI.

Marco Bozzaris.-HALLECK.

At midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power:

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