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A sudden cloud straight snatch'd them from my sight,
And each majestic phantom sunk in night.

Then came the smallest tribe I yet had seen;
Plain was their dress, and modest was their mien.
Great Idol of Mankind! we neither claim
The praise of merit, nor aspire to fame;
But safe in deserts from th' applause of men,
Would die unheard of, as we liv'd unseen.
'Tis all we beg thee, to conceal from sight
Those acts of goodness, which themselves requite.
O let us still the secret joy partake,

To follow Virtue e'en for Virtue's sake.

And live there men who slight immortal Fame?
Who then with incense shall adore our name?
But, mortals! know, 'tis still our greatest pride
To blaze those virtues which the good would hide.
Rise! Muses, rise! add all your tuneful breath;
These must not sleep in darkness and in death.
She said in air the trembling music floats,
And on the winds triumphant swell the notes;
So soft, though high, so loud, and yet so clear,
E'en list'ning Angels lean from heaven to hear.
To furthest shores th' ambrosial spirit flies,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies.

Last, those who boast of mighty mischiefs done,
Enslave their country, or usurp a throne;
Or who their glory's dire foundation laid
On sov'reigns ruin'd, or on friends betray'd;
Calm, thinking villains, whom no faith could fix,
Of crooked councils, and dark politics;
Of these a gloomy tribe surround the throne,
And beg to make the immortal treasons known.
The trumpet roars, long flaky flames expire,
With sparks that seem'd to set the world on fire.
At the dread sound pale mortals stood aghast,
And startled nature trembled with the blast.

Pope.

56. From the Field of Waterloo. THOU, too, whose deeds of fame renew'd Bankrupt a nation's gratitude,

To thine own noble heart must owe
More than the meed she can bestow.
For not a people's just acclaim,
Not the full hail of Europe's fame,
Thy prince's smiles, thy state's decree,
The ducal rank, the garter'd knee,
Not these such pure delight afford
As that, when, hanging up thy sword,
Well may'st thou think, "This honest steel
Was ever drawn for public weal;

And, such was rightful Heaven's decree,
Ne'er sheath'd unless with victory!"

Look forth, once more, with soften'd heart,
Ere from the field of fame we part;
Triumph and Sorrow border near,
And joy oft melts into a tear.
Alas! what links of love that morn
Has War's rude hand asunder torn !
For ne'er was field so sternly fought,
And ne'er was conquest dearer bought.
Here piled in common slaughter sleep
Those whom affection long shall weep;
Here rests the sire, that ne'er shall strain
His orphans to his heart again;
The son, whom, on his native shore,
The parent's voice shall bless no more;
The bridegroom, who has hardly press'd
His blushing consort to his breast;
The husband, whom through many a year
Long love and mutual faith endear.
Thou can'st not name one tender tie

But here dissolved its reliques lie!
O when thou see'st some mourner's veil,
Shroud her thin form and visage pale,
Or mark'st the Matron's bursting tears
Stream when the stricken drum she hears;
Or see'st how manlier grief, suppress'd,
Is labouring in a father's breast,-

With no inquiry vain pursue

The cause, but think on Waterloo !

Period of honour as of woes,

What bright careers 'twas thine to close !-
Mark'd on thy roll of blood what names
To Britain's memory, and to Fame's,
Laid there their last immortal claims !
Thou saw'st in seas of gore expire
Redoubted PICTON'S Soul of fire—
Saw'st in the mingled carnage lie
All that of PONSONBY could die-
DE LANCY change Love's bridal wreath,
For laurels from the hand of Death-
Saw'st gallant MILLER'S failing eye
Still bent where Albion's banners fly,
And CAMERON, in the shock of steel,
Die like the offspring of Lochiel;
And generous GORDON, 'mid the strife,
Fall while he watch'd his leader's life.-
Ah! though her guardian angel's shield
Fenc'd Britain's hero through the field,
Fate not the less her power made known,
Through his friends' hearts to pierce his own!
Forgive, brave Dead, the imperfect lay!
Who may your names, your numbers, say?
What high-strung harp, what lofty line,
To each the dear-earn'd praise assign,
From high-born chiefs of martial fame
To the poor soldier's lowlier name?
Lightly ye rose that dawning day,
From your cold couch of swamp and clay,
To fill, before the sun was low,

The bed that morning cannot know.-
Oft may the tear the green sod steep,
And sacred be the heroes' sleep,

Till Time shall cease to run;
And ne'er beside their noble grave,
May Briton pass and fail to crave
A blessing on the fallen brave

Who fought with Wellington! Walter Scott.

1.-Against Suicide.

YET die ev'n thus', thus' rather perish still,
Ye Sons of Pleasure, by the Almighty' strick'n,
Than ever dare' (though oft', alas! ye dare)
To lift against yourselves' the murd❜rous steel,
To wrest from God's' own hand the sword of Justice,
And be your own' avengers! Hold', rash Man,
Though with anticipating speed thou'st rang'd
Through every region of delight, nor left
One joy to gild the evening' of thy days;
Though life seem one uncomfortable void',
Guilt at thy heels', before thy face despair';
Yet gay this' scene, and light this' load of woe,
Compar'd with thy hereafter. Think', O think',
And, ere thou plunge into the vast abyss',
Pause on the verge a while, look down' and see
Thy future' mansion. Why that start of horror'?
From thy slack hand' why drops th' uplifted steel'?
Didst thou not think' such vengeance must await
The wretch, that with his crimes all fresh' about him
Rushes irreverent', unprepar'd', uncall'd',
Into his Maker's presence, throwing back
With insolent disdain his choicest' gift?
Live' then, while Heav'n in pity' lends thee life,
And think it all too short to wash away
By penitential tears' and deep contrition'
The scarlet of thy crimes'. So shalt thou find
Rest to thy soul, so unappall'd' shall meet
Death when he comes', not wantonly invite'
His ling'ring stroke. Be it thy sole' concern
With innocence' to live, with patience wait'
Th' appointed hour; too soon' that hour will come,
Tho' Nature run' her course. But Nature's God',
If need' require, by thousand various ways,
Without thy' aid, can shorten that short' span,
And quench' the lamp of life.

Portens

2.-Various Modes of Punishment.

O WHEN He comes,

Rous'd by the cry of wickedness extreme
To Heav'n ascending from some guilty land,
Now ripe for vengeance; when he comes array'd
In all the terrors of Almighty wrath h;

Forth from his bosom plucks his ling'ring arm,
And on the miscreants pours destruction down,
Who can abide his coming? Who can bear
His whole displeasure? In no common form
Death then appears, but starting into size
Enormous, measures with gigantic stride

Th' astonish'd Earth, and from his looks throws round
Unutterable horror and dismay.

All nature lends her aid. Each Element

Arms in his cause. Ope fly the doors of Heaven;
The fountains of the deep their barriers break;
Above, below, the rival torrents pour,

And drown Creation; or in floods of fire
Descends a livid cataract, and consumes

An impious race. Sometimes, when all seems peace,
Wakes the grim whirlwind, and with rude embrace
Sweeps nations to their grave, or in the deep
Whelms the proud wooden world; full many a youth
Floats on his watery bier, or lies unwept

On some sad desert shore! At dead of night
In sullen silence stalks forth PESTILENCE;
CONTAGION close behind taints all her steps-
With pois'nous dew; no smiting hand is seen,
No sound is heard, but soon her secret path
Is mark'd with desolation; heaps on heaps
Promiscuous drop. No friend, no refuge, near;
All, all, is false and treacherous around,

All that they touch, or taste, or breathe, is DEATH.
But ah! what means that ruinous roar? why fail
These tott'ring feet? Earth to its centre feels
The Godhead's power, and trembling at his touch
Through all its pillars, and in every pore,
Hurls to the ground with one convulsive heave

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