On the whirlwind of the war,
High he rode in vengeance dire;
To his friends a leading star,
To his foes consuming fire.
Then the mighty pour'd their breath,
Slaughter feasted on the brave;
'Twas the Carnival of Death;
'Twas the Vintage of the Grave!
Charg'd with Abercrombie's doom,
Lightning wing'd a cruel ball:
'Twas the herald of the tomb,
And the Hero felt the call.
Felt, and raised his arm on high,
Victory well the signal knew,
Darted from his awful eye,
And the force of France o'erthrew.
But the horrors of that fight,
Were the weeping Muse to tell;
O 'twould cleave the womb of night,
And awake the dead that fell!·
Gash'd with honourable scars,
Low in Glory's lap they lie:
Though they fell, they fell like stars,
Streaming splendour through the sky.
Yet shall Memory mourn that day,
When with expectation pale,
Of her soldier far away,
The poor widow hears the tale.
She shall wander o'er this plain;
Rave,—and bid her orphan child
Seek his sire among the slain.
Gently from the western deep,
O ye evening breezes rise!
O'er the Lyre of Memnon sweep,
Wake its spirit with your sighs.
Harp of Memnon! sweetly strung
To the music of the spheres ;
While the Hero's dirge is sung,
Breathe enchantment to our ears.
Let thy numbers soft and slow,
O'er the plain with carnage spread,
Soothe the dying, while they flow
To the memory of the dead.
None but solemn, tender tones,
Tremble from thy plaintive wires;
Hark! the wounded warrior groans!
Hush thy warbling, he expires!
Hush!-while sorrow wakes and weeps;
O'er his relicks cold and pale,
Night her silent vigil keeps,
In a mournful moonlight veil.
Harp of Memnon! from afar,
Ere the lark salute the sky,
Watch the rising of the star,
That proclaims the morning nigh.
Soon the sun's ascending rays,
In a flood of hallow'd fire,
O'er thy kindling chords shall blaze,
And thy magic soul inspire.
Then thy tones triumphant pour,
Let them pierce the Hero's grave:
Life's tumultuous battle o'er,
O how sweetly sleep the brave!
From the dust their laurels bloom,
High they shoot, and flourish free;
Glory's temple is the tomb!
Death is immortality!
SOME Men of Books are wonderous nice
In buying all that's rare or choice ;—
Now Mævius, on a different plan,
Buys up the veriest trash he can,
And hoards, with avaricious glee,
His huge waste-paper library
In garrets, sheds, and lofts for hay,
Till tons of learning mould away :—
Mourn ye cook-shops and common sewers,
The loss, alack! is wholly yours.
BY MISS ANNA MARIA PORTER
RING on! ring on, ye merry bells,
And be to others, sounds of gladness-
Alas! your silver sweetness swells
To wake my slumbering heart to madness.
Ring on! ring on! for since your chimes
Shall never now my wedding hallow,
O! be the voice of other times,
And rouse their joys, like spectres sallow!
Ah! ring such pensive peals as when
In these tall groves I wander'd sighing,
And listen'd to the best of men,
Who now in yonder grave is lying!
Ah! ring such peals as may recall
Those happy hours, now gone for ever;
And whilst the bitter tear-drops fall,
At once my soul and reason sever.
KEEN blows the wind, and biting rains descend;
Boy! let the cheerful log improve the fire:
Here too, invite my fair, my lovely friend;
Meanwhile, from yon sear aspin bring the lyre.
Oh, lyre belov'd! I touch thy strings in vain;
Fancy, with all her flattering dreams, is fled,
Which once, with Hope and Pleasure in her train,
Twined her gay wreaths around my youthful head.
Yet once, once more assist the Poet's art,
When Friendship calls on MARY's natal morn; Once more, thy stronger, sweeter sounds impart, For then, were Grace and Truth and Pity born.
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