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The Battle of Waterloo.
HERE was a sound of revelry by night,
Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright
The lamps shone, o'er fair women
and brave men:
A thousand hearts beat happily; and
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake
And all went merry as a marriage-bellBut, 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 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 op'ning roar !
Within a window'd 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;
THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
And when they smil'd because he deem'd it near,
And roused the vengeance, blood alone could quell:
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
While throng'd the citizens, with terror dumb,
Or whisp'ring with white lips-"The foe! they come! they come!"
And wild and high "the Cam'rons' gath'ring" rose !
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes!
THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO,
Their mountain-pipes, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring, which instils
The stirring mem'ry of a thousand years;
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Over the unreturning brave-alas!
Ere ev'ning, to be trodden, like the grass
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—
The midnight brought the signal sound of strife-
Battle's magnificently stern array!
The thunder clouds close o'er it. And when rent,
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover-heap'd and pent— Rider and horse-friend, foe-in one red burial blent.
[ALEXANDER POPE. For more than a century it has been in many circles a disputed point whether Pope was a poet, or merely a polished and elegant versifier; and the controversy seems likely to continue so long as tastes differ so completely as to what elements constitute poetic entity. If Miltonic grandeur, the humour of a Chaucer, or the inventive powers of Shakespeare, are indispensable, then was Pope no poet, for these he had not; but wit and fancy, elegance of diction, and power of satire, were his in no small degree; indeed, in satiric power he is unsurpassed, save by Dryden, the great model upon whom he formed his style. How marvellously he has expressed in the portraiture of Addison the stifled jealousy in the courtly critic, who is "so obliging that he ne'er obliged"-who can "just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike' -who, unable or loth openly to condemn, can “damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, and without sneering teach the rest to sneer." The genius which produces such lines as these may not be of the highest order-but it is true genius still.]
On a certain Lady at Court.
KNOW the thing that's most uncommon;
(Envy, be silent, and attend!)
I know a reasonable woman,
Handsome and witty, yet a friend:
Not warp'd by Passion, awed by Rumour;
Not grave through Pride, nor gay through Folly; An equal mixture of good humour,
And sensible, soft melancholy.
"Has she no faults, then (Envy says), sir?"
When all the world conspires to praise her,
Unless by man the spot be clad
To nature it seems just as dear
The showers descend as softly there
"Ay! but within-within, there sleeps
The loathsome earth-worm winds and creeps,
And what of that? The frame that feeds
The reptile tribe below,
As little of their banquet heeds,
As of the winds that blow.