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Yet now he sleeps, the turf on his breast,
By wet wild flowers surrounded;
The church shadow falls o'er his place of rest,
Where the steps of his childhood bounded.

There were tears that fell from manly eyes,

There was woman's gentler weeping, And the wailing of age and infant cries, O'er the grave where he lies sleeping.

He had left his home in his spirit's pride,
With his father's sword and blessing;
He stood with the valiant side by side,
His country's wrongs redressing.

He came again in the light of his fame,
When the red campaign was over;
One heart that in secret had kept his name,
Was claimed by the soldier lover.

But the cloud of strife came upon the sky,
He left his sweet home for battle,

And his young child's lisp for the loud war-cry,
And the cannon's long death-rattle.

He came again,—but an altered man,
The path of the grave was before him,
And the smile that he wore was cold and wan,
For the shadow of death hung o'er him.

He spoke of victory,-spoke of cheer;

These are words that are vainly spoken To the childless mother, or orphan's ear, Or the widow whose heart is broken.

A helmet and sword are engraved on the stone,
Half hidden by yonder willow;

There he sleeps, whose death in battle was won,
But who died on his own home-pillow! Anonymous.

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18. THE FIELD OF GILBOA.

THE Sun of the morning looked forth from his throne,
And beamed on the face of the dead and the dying;
For the yell of the strife, like the thunder, had flown,

And red on Gilboa the carnage was lying.

And there lay the husband that lately was prest

To the beautiful cheek that was tearless and ruddy; But the claws of the eagle were fixed in his breast, And the beak of the vulture was busy and bloody.

And there lay the son of the widowed and sad,

Who yesterday went from her dwelling for ever; Now the wolf of the hills a sweet carnival had

On the delicate limb that had ceased not to quiver.

And there came the daughter, the delicate child,

To hold up the head that was breathless and hoary; And there came the maiden, all frantic and wild,

To kiss the loved lips that were gasping and gory.

And there came the consort that struggled in vain

To stem the red tide of a spouse that bereft her; And there came the mother that sunk 'mid the slain,

To weep o'er the last human stay that was left her.

Oh! bloody Gilboa, a curse ever lie

Where the king and his people were slaughtered together; May the dew and the rain leave thy herbage to die, Thy flocks to decay, and thy forests to wither!

19.-A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH.

How deep yon azure dyes the sky,
Where orbs of gold unnumbered lie!
While through their ranks, in silver pride,
'The nether crescent seems to glide.
The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangle snow,
Descends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds which on the right aspire,
In dimness from the view retire:
The left presents a place of graves,
Whose wall the silent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight,
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass, with melancholy state,
By all the solemn heaps of fate,
And think, as softly sad you tread
Above the venerable dead,

KNOX.

Now from yon black and funeral yew, That bathes the charnel-house with dew, Methinks I hear a voice begin; (Ye ravens, cease your croaking din,) It sends a peal of hollow groans, Thus speaking from among the bones: “When men my scythe and darts supply, "How great a King of Fears am I !

Time was, like thee, they life possest,
And time shall be, that thou shalt rest.

The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,-
These, all the poor remains of state,
Adorn the rich, or praise the great;
Who, while on earth in fame they live,
Are senseless of the fame they give.

Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,
The bursting earth unveils the shades!
All slow, and wan, and wrapped with shrouds,
They rise in visionary crowds;

And all with sober accent cry,

Think, mortal, what it is to die.

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They view me like the last of things;

They make and then they dread my stings. "Fools! if you less provoked your fears, "No more my spectre-form appears. "Death's but a path that must be trod, "If man would ever pass to God: “A port of calms, a state of ease, "From the rough rage of swelling seas.”

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20. THE SHIELD.

OH! did you not hear a voice of death?
And did you not mark the paly form
Which rode on the silver mist of the heath,
And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm?

PARNELL,

Was it a wailing bird of the gloom,

Which shrieks on the house of wo all night? Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb,

To howl and to feed till the glance of light?

'Twas not the death-bird's cry from the wood,
Nor shivering fiend that hung in the blast;
'Twas the shade of Helderic-man of blood-
It screams for the guilt of days that are past!

See! how the red, red lightning strays,

And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath!
Now on the leafless yew it plays,

Where hangs the shield of this son of death!

That shield is blushing with murderous stains;

Long has it hung from the cold yew's spray;
It is blown by storms and washed by rains,
But neither can take the blood away!

Oft by that yew on the blasted field,
Demons dance to the red moon's light;

While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging shield
Sings to the raving spirit of night!

MOORE.

21.-LOUDHON'S ATTACK.-A HUNGARIAN WAR-SONG.

RISE, ye Croats, fierce and strong,
Form the front and march along;
And gather fast, ye gallant men,
Of Nona and of Warrasden,
Whose sunny mountains nurse a line
Generous as her fiery wine;
Hosts of Buda, hither bring
The bloody flag, and eagle wing;
Ranks of Agria, head and heel
Sheathed in adamantine steel,
Quit the woodlands and the boar,
Ye hunters wild on Drava's shore ;
And ye that hew her oaken wood,
Brown with lusty hardihood,
The trumpets sound, the colours fly,
And Loudhon leads to victory!

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The vulture, screaming for his food,
Conducts you to the field of blood,
And bids the sword of valour seek
For nurture to his gory beak!

Men of Austria, mark around,
Classic fields and holy ground;
For here were deeds of glory done,
And battles by our fathers won-
Fathers who bequeathed to you
Their country and their courage too;
Heirs of plunder and renown,
Hew the squadrons-hew them down.
Now ye triumph-Slaughter now
Tears the field with bloody plough;

And all the streamy shore resounds
With shouts and shrieks and sabre-wounds!
thunders carry fate;

Now your
Now the field is desolate-

Save where Loudhon's eagles fly

On the wings of victory!
This is glory, this is life!
Champions of a noble strife,
Moving like a wall of rock
To stormy siege or battle-shock;
Thus we conquer might and main,
Fight and conquer o'er again :
Grenadiers, that, fierce and large,
Stamp like dragons to the charge;
Foot and horsemen, serf and lord,
Triumph now with one accord!
Years of triumph shall repay
Death and dangers' troubled day
Soon the rapid shot is o'er,
But glory lasts for evermore-
Glory, whose immortal eye
Guides us to the victory!

Anonymous.

22. THE PETIT-MAITRE AND THE MAN ON THE WHEEL.

AT Paris, some time since, a murdering man,
A German, and a most unlucky chap,
Sad, stumbling at the threshold of his plan,
Fell into Madam Justice's strong trap.

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