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With ghastly wound, and broken brand,
A dying warrior lay.
No fond and faithful one was there
To kneel her parting love beside, To staunch his death-wound with her hair, And stay life's ebbing tide.
He lay beside the gushing spring,
That from its fount in freshness burst;
A drop to cool that thirst,
Its fiery agony.
E'en then on memory's wakeful eye
Fair as a vision of the sky,
In rainbow beauty blend
A dream of summer, love, and youth,
And scenes he ne'er may see again,
In all the glowing tints of truth
While victory sends her deafening shout,
Then beauty droops within.
She clasps her babes with sob and sigh,
John Malcolm, Esq.
THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.
His sword and plume are on his pall,
They lay him in his dreamless bed,
The banners droop above the brave; The requiem of the glorious dead
Thrice rolls in thunder o'er his grave.
How sound his sleep-his battle's o'er,
While buried grandeur cannot buy
One mourner o'er its lonely bier, His name shall breathe in beauty's sigh— His memory brighten in her tear.
"Twill steal upon the festal train,
The voice of reckless mirth to quell, And wake in music's melting strain, Whose accents weep so wildly well.
But to the lone and widowed heart, Can thoughts like this a balm instil? Can glory's voice a charm impart
To lull-to soothe its cureless ill?
They'll bid her try to think no more
The loved-the lost-the silent dead.
But when was sorrow known to woo
The themes that make its pangs the less?
Or what have broken hearts to do
With cold and dull forgetfulness?
Or how should e'er the source of woe
Because, alas! it flows in vain.
John Malcolm, Esq.
ON SEEING, IN A LIST OF NEW MUSIC, THE WATERLOO WALTZ.
A moment pause-ye British fair,
Awful was the victory!
Veiled in clouds the morning rose,
How unfit for courtly ball,
Was the grim, and ghastly view,
Shall scenes like these the dance inspire,
Other sounds-I ween were there,
Forbear till time, with lenient hand,
When our race has passed away,