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Oh then her tender bloom might seem the shadow of the
Or dying gleam of sunset skies, scarce tinging stainless
And clustering round her brow serene, her golden tresses lay,
As sun-bright clouds on summer lakes are hung at close of day.
Yet-yet once more I saw her face, and then she seemed to sleep
In bright and beautiful repose; but, ah! too still and deep;
Far, far too deep for lovely dreams-for youthful, yes! too
O'er which the morn may vainly break, with all its light and song.
John Malcolm, Esq.
PREPARATION FOR THE BATTLE OF
There was a sound of revelry by night,
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
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 !
ye not hear it ?-No; it was 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
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! arm! it is—it is—the cannon's opening roar !
Within a window'd niche of that high ball,
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 checking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated :—who could guess If ever morn 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 !
Their mountain pipe, so fills the mountaineers
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valour, rolling on the foe
And burning with high hope, shall moulder 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 thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse,-friend, foe-in one red burial blent !
THE WAR POEM.
Hark, how the church-bell's thundering harmony
Of glory for the rumour of the waves
For those who fell.-'Twas in their country's cause They have their passing paragraphs of praise
And are forgotten.
There was one who died In that day's glory; whose obscurer name No proud historian's page will chronicle. Peace to his honest soul!-I read his name, "Twas in the list of slaughter,-and blessed God The sound was not familiar to my ear. But it was told me after, that this man Was one, whom lawful violence had forced
From his own home-and wife-and little ones, Who by his labour lived; that he was one