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How that red rain-hath made the harvest grow!
And is this all the world has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields! king-making victory?

There was a sound of revelry by night,
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 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!

Did ye not hear it?-No; 't was 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
Sat 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 deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:
He rushed 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
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
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 clansman's ears!

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!

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!

IX.

Outalissi's Death Song.-CAMPBELL.

"And I could weep"-the Oneida chief

His descant wildly thus began;

"But that I may not stain with grief The death song of my father's son, Or bow this head in wo;

For by my wrongs and by my wrath!

To-morrow Areouski's breath,

That fires yon heaven with storms of death, Shall light us to the foe:

And we shall share, my Christian boy,

The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!

"But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep,

The spirits of the white man's heaven
Forbid not thee to weep:-

Nor will the Christian host,

Nor will thy father's spirit grieve,
To see thee on the battle eve,
Lamenting, take a mournful leave
Of her that loved thee most;
She was the rainbow to thy sight!
Thy sun-thy heaven-of lost delight.

"To-morrow let us do or die!-
But when the bolt of death is hurled,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world?
Seek we thy once loved home?

The hand is gone that cropped its flowers!
Unheard their clock repeats its hours!
Cold is the hearth within their bowers!
And should we thither roam,

Its echoes, and its empty tread,

Would sound like voices from the dead!

"Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,
Whose streams my kindred nations quaffed,
And by my side, in battle true,

A thousand warriors drew the shaft?-
Ah! there, in desolation cold,

The desert serpent dwells alone,

Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone,

And stones, themselves to ruin grown,

Like me, are death-like old!

Then seek we not their camp-for there

The silence dwells of my despair!

"But hark, the trump!-to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears!
Even from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears
Amidst the clouds that round us roll!
He bids my soul for battle thirst-
He bids me dry-the last!-the first!-
The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul!

Because I may not stain with grief
The death song of an Indian chief."

X.

Marco Bozzaris.-HALLECK.

At midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power:

In dreams, through camp and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring:
Then pressed that monarch's throne-a king
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood
On old Platæa's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.

An hour passed on-the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;

He woke to hear his sentries shriek,

"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" He woke to die 'midst flame and smoke, And shout and groan and sabre-stroke,

And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band:

"Strike-till the last armed foe expires; Strike-for your altars and your fires; Strike-for the green graves

of your sires;

God-and your native land!"

They fought like brave men, long and well, They piled that ground with Moslem slain; They conquered-but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw
His smile, when rang their proud huzza,
And the red field was won;
Then saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly as to a night's repose,
Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber, death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form.
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm,
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine;
And thou art terrible-The tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream or fear
Of

agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.

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