by considerable sums. His grand weapon, namely, the millions whom he directed, he owed to the representative character which clothed him. He interests us as he stands for France and for Europe; and he exists as captain and king only as far as the Revolution or the interests of the industrious masses found an organ and a leader in him. In the social interests he knew the meaning and value of labour, and threw himself naturally on that side. The principal works that have survived him are his magnificent roads. He filled his troops with his spirit, and a sort of freedom and companionship grew up between him and them, which the forms of his court never permitted between the officers and himself. They performed under his eye that which no others could do. The best document of his relation to his troops, is the order of the day on the morning of the battle of Austerlitz, in which Napoleon promises the troops that he will keep his person out of reach of fire. This declaration, which is the reverse of that ordinarily made by generals and sovereigns on the eve of a battle, sufficiently explains the devotion of the army to their leader. THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 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: And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, A thousand hearts beat happily; and Or whispering, with white lips-"The foe! 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; '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 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 moun taineers With the fierce native daring, which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years; But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in And Evan's, Donald's, fame rings in each FUNERAL OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. No sounds of labour vexed the quiet air From morn till eve. The people all stood still, And earth won back a Sabbath. were none There Who cared to buy and sell, and make a gain, For one whole day. All felt as they had lost A father, and were fain to keep within, The simplest peasant in the land that day Knew somewhat of his country's grief. He heard The knell of England's hero from the tower Of the old church, and asked the cause, and sighed. The vet'ran who had bled on some far field, Fought o'er the battle for the thousandth time With quaint addition; and the little child That stopped his sport to run and ask his sire What it all meant, picked out the simple tale, How he who drove the French from Water100, And crushed the tyrant of the world, and made His country great and glorious,—he was dead. All, from the simplest to the stateliest, knew But one sad story--from the cotter's bairn Up to the fair-haired lady on the throne, Who sat within and sorrowed for her friend; And every tear she shed became her well, And seemed more lovely in her people's eyes Than all the starry wonders of her crown. But, as the waters of the Northern Sea (When one strong wind blows steady from the pole) Come hurrying to the shore, and far and wide As eye can reach the creaming waves press on Impatient; or, as trees that bow their tops One way, when Alpine hollows bring one way The blast whereat they quiver in the vale, So millions pressed to swell the general grief One way;-for once all men seemed one way drawn; Or if, through evil hap and unforeseen, Some stayed behind, their hearts, at least, were there The whole day through-could think of nothing else, Hear nothing else, see nothing! In his cell The student saw the pageant; spied from far The long-drawn pomp which reached from west to east, Slow moving in the silence-casque and plume And banner waving sad; the marvellous state Of heralds, soldiers, nobles, foreign powers, With baton, or with pennon; princes, peers, Judges, and dignitaries of Church and State, And warriors grown gray-headed;-every form Which greatness can assume or honour name, Peaceful or warlike,-each and all were there; Trooping in sable sorrow after him That 'twas no national sorrow, but a grief Wide as the world. A child might understand That all mankind were sorrowing for one! That banded nations had conspired to pay This homage to the chief who drew his sword At the command of Duty; kept it bright Through perilous days; and soon as Victory smiled, Laid it, unsullied, in the lap of Peace. Oriel College. ANON. BINGEN ON THE RHINE. A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob Algiers; with drooping head, There was lack of woman's nursing, there When the troops are marching home again, was dearth of woman's tears; with glad and gallant tread; But a comrade stood beside him, while his But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear For her brother was a soldier too, and not what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said: "I never more shall see my own, my native land: afraid to die. And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; Take a message and a token to some distant And to hang the old sword in its place (my friends of mine, father's sword and mine), For I was born at Bingen-at Bingen on For the honour of old Bingen--dear Bingen the Rhine. on the Rhine! Tell my brothers and companions, when There's another not a sister; in the they meet and crowd around, To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; That we fought the battle bravely; and Too innocent for coquetry-too fond for idle when the day was done, scorning! Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath O friend, I fear the lightest heart makes the setting sun. sometimes heaviest mourning! Tell her the last night of my life (for ere this moon be risen And 'midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars The death-wound on their gallant breasts, My body will be out of pain-my soul be the last of many scars; But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline; out of prison) I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine And one had come from Bingen--fair | On the vine-clad hills of Bingen-fair BinBingen on the Rhine. gen on the Rhine! Tell my mother that her other sons shall I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, comfort her old age, or seemed to hear, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought The German songs we used to sing in chorus his home a cage; sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child, My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of That echoing chorus sounded, through the struggles fierce and wild; evening calm and still; And when he died, and left us to divide his And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we scanty hoard, passed with friendly talk I let them take whate'er they would, but Down many a path beloved of yore, and kept my father's sword;. well-remembered walk; And with boyish love I hung it where the And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly bright light used to shine, in mine;- On the cottage-wall at Bingen-calm Bin- But we'll meet no more at Bingen-loved gen on the Rhine! Bingen on the Rhine!" His voice grew faint and hoarser; his grasp | And the soft moon rose up slowly, and was childish weak; calmly she looked down His eyes put on a dying look; he sighed, On the red sand of the battle-field, with and ceased to speak. bloody corpses strown; His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale of life had fled; light seemed to shine, The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land As it shone on distant Bingen-fair Bingen --was dead! on the Rhine! THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE. HON. MRS. NORTON. THERE'S a white stone placed upon yonder One heart that in secret had kept his name, That sends its loud clear note abroad, And though the light shine bright on high, Echoes through groves with coral gay, More softly do the sea gems glow There's beauty in the deep. There's music in the deep:- And dies on spongy banks away: There's quiet in the deep: Above, let tides and tempests rave, BRAINARD. |