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POETRY.

WATERLOO,

From the Third Canto of Childe Harold.

HERE was a sound of revelry by night,

TH

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 look'd 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 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 opening roar!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sate 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 deem'd it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell :
He rush'd 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
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness;

And

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 the 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 ear!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,

Over the unreturning brave,-alas !

Ere evening 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,

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

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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!

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Written in a Choultry, situate in a very desert Tract, by Captain T. A. Anderson, H. M. 19th Foot.

WITHIN this Choultry's ample space,
The way-worn traveller's resting-place,
Whose massy columns countless glow,
Reflected in the tank below,

Whose endless porticos and halls,
Whose pillar'd domes, and echoing walls,
Its proud magnificence attest,

The child of poverty may rest!~
Herc wealth gives no exclusive claim,
No deference to a noble name;

To all the race of man as free
As heaven's cerulean canopy.
Long may the pious fabric stand
Amid this boundless waste of sand;
Like some blest island's friendly cove,
To those who on the ocean rove!

The veriest wretch, while shelter'd here,
Shrinks from no fellow-mortal's sneer,
Whose broken spirit ill could brook
A purse-proud landlord's scornful look ;
But, safe from noon's destructive force,
May pause upon his toilsome course,
With food and rest his frame renew,
His homeward journey to pursue;
And, at the welcome close of light,
When fire-flies take their evening flight,
And hover round each fragrant flow'r;
When burning skies have lost their pow'r,
When with fresh hopes, and thankful heart,
He girds his loins in act to part,

Warm from his soul how many a pray'r
Will bless the generous founder's care!

Whom fancy pictures to the eye,

As passing faint and wearily

Along this drear and barren scene,

Where noontide rays smite fierce and keen,
And arid winds incessant sweep

The billows of this sandy deep,

No stunted palm, nor date-tree seen,

To yield a momentary screen,

No hut his languid limbs to rest,

Tho' sore by toil and thirst opprest!

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In such a scene of dread and woe,
Well might he make a solemn vow,
That if some Mercy-loving Pow'r
Should guard him in that evil hour,
To him a stately fane should rise,
A refuge from these wrathful skies,
A monument of gratitude
Amid this fiery solitude!

Perhaps the prayer was not in vain,
And hence this fabric decks the plain.
And if, as old traditions say,
The spirit, parted from its clay,
Shall still with former feelings throng
Round scenes and objects lov'd so long,
How must it gratify his shade,
To hear the homage hourly paid,
To hear the fainting traveller cry,

With throbbing breast, and tear-dimm'd eye,
"A thousand blessings on the hand
"That first these sacred turrets plann'd,
"And plac'd this kind asylum here,
"The lone way-faring man to cheer !"

England! my country! tho' thou art
Entwin'd around my very heart,
Canst thou the solemn truth deny,
A truth impress'd on every eye,
That while ONE stranger houseless lies
Beneath thine ever-varying skies,
Thou art in charity outdone

By Asia's rude, untutor'd son !

Batticaloa, Oct. 1815.

ADDRESS OF WINTER, TO TIMOUR.

Versified from Sir John Malcolm's History of Persia.

BY MISS PORDEN.

KEEN blew the sleety gale, the scene was drear,
One sheet of white the hills and plains appear,
Vast blocks of ice obstruct the rapid floods,

And hills of snow conceal the sable woods,

Nor bird, nor beast, nor living thing was seen,

Nor flower, nor fruit, nor blade of herbage green;
All Nature knew the appointed time of rest,
And sheltered, slept in earth's maternal breast.

Man's

;

Man's heart alone no change of season knows,
And proud ambition stoops not to repose!
The tyrant's troops, regardless of the blast,
Blacken with countless hordes the silvery waste.
High on his Tartar steed the conqueror rode.
And led his myriads o'er the frozen flood
When lo! amid a realm of subject snows,
In awful pride, gigantic Winter rose.
His hand, with arrows filled, was lifted high,
A ghastly gleam was in his frozen eye;
Like some vast mountain his stupendous form,
His voice the howling of the Alpine storm.
It lacked the melody of living breath,
And chill'd the spirit as the voice of Death.
"Behold the mighty conqueror, who defies,
"Not man alone, but these inclement skies.
"Yet though thy dreadful warriors onward ride,
"Nor fawn the elements, to sooth thy pride,
"Round thy warm linibs my icy robe I cast,
"I give thee to the snow, the hail, the blast;
"Yon hill-the Spirit of the Storm is there,
"And bids thee, tyrant, stop thy rash career.
"No longer shalt thou wrap the world in flame ;
"Art thou a spirit of vengeance? I the same.
"Slaves to subdue, we use our power alike,
"When baneful stars in dire conjunction strike.
"How terrible their force! but on! be bold!
"Make earth's best region desolate and cold,
"Then in the impotence of fury pine,

"To find at length thy blasts less keen than mine.
"If thou canst glory in unnumbered bands,
"That waste, destroy, o'erwhelm the fairest lands,
"With heavenly aid my storms as widely sweep,

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Thy lance is keen, my arrow strikes as deep!
"And on thy head, by Him that governs all,
"The deadliest venom of my wrath shall fall,
"Not all thy fires, thyself, thine host shall save
"From the cold sleep, the tempest's icy grave."

TO BRITAIN.

From "Thoughts on Wheels," a Poem by J. Montgomery.

I LOVE Thee, O my native ISLE!
Dear as my mother's earliest smile,
Sweet as my father's voice to me
Is all I hear and all I see;
2 T

VOL. LVIII,

When

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