Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and strive to rise;

Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes !"

Look forth once more, Ximena! "Like a cloud before the wind

Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death

behind;

Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded

strive;

Hide your faces, holy angels! oh, thou Christ of God, forgive!"

Sink, oh Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray shadows fall;

Dying brothers, fighting demons-drop thy curtain over all! Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled,

In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold.

But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint, and lacking food;

Over weak and suffering brothers with a tender care they hung,

And the dying foeman bless'd them in a strange and Northern tongue.

Not wholly lost, oh Father! is this evil world of ours; Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden flowers;

From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their

prayer,

And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air!

ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES.

411

LXXIII.-ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES.

THOMAS MOORE.

Ay-down to the dust with them, slaves as they are,
From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins,
That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war
Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

On, on like a cloud, through their beautiful vales,
Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er-
Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails

From each slave-mart of Europe, and shadow their shore!

Let their fate be a mock-word, let men of all lands,
Laugh out, with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,
When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands,
Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls.

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driv'n,
Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be,

To think- -as the Doom'd often think of that heav'n

They had once within reach-that they might have been free.

When the world stood in hope-when a spirit, that breathed
The fresh hour of the olden time, whisper'd about;
And the swords of all Italy, half-way unsheath'd,
But waited one conquering cry, to flash out!

When around you the shades of your mighty in fame,
Filicajas and Petrarchs seem'd bursting to view,

And their words, and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame

Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you!

Oh shame! that in such a proud moment of life,
Worth the hist'ry of ages, when had you but hurl'd

One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife

Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world.

That then-oh! disgrace upon manhood-ev'n then
You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath;

Cow'r down into beasts, when you might have stood men,
And prefer the slave's life of prostration to death.

It is strange, it is dreadful ;-shout, Tyranny, shout
Through your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er;"-
If there lingers one spark of her life, tread it out,
And return to your empire of darkness once more.

LXXIV.-FORGIVE AND FORGET.

M. F. TUPPER.

WHEN streams of unkindness as bitter as gall,
Bubble up from the heart to the tongue,
And meekness is writhing in torment and thrall,
By the hands of Ingratitude wrung,-

In the heat of injustice, unwept and unfair,
While the anguish is festering yet,

None, none but an angel, or God, can declare
I now can forgive and forget."

But, if the bad spirit is chased from the heart,
And the lips are in penitence steep'd,
With the wrong so repented the wrath will depart,
Though scorn on injustice were heaped;
For the best compensation is paid for all ill,
When the cheek with contrition is wet,
And every one feels it is possible still,
At once to forgive and forget.

To forget? It is hard for a man with a mind,
However his heart may forgive,

To blot out all perils and dangers behind,

And but for the future to live:

Then how shall it be? for at every turn
Recollection the spirit will fret,

And the ashes of injury smoulder and burn,
Though we strive to forgive and forget.

Oh, hearken! my tongue shall the riddle unseal,
And mind shall be partner with heart,
While thee to thyself I bid Conscience reveal,
And show thee how evil thou art;

ROBERT BURNS.

Remember thy follies, thy sins, and thy crimes,
How vast is that infinite debt!

Yet

mercy hath seven by seventy times Been swift to forgive and forget!

Brood not on insults or injuries old,

For thou art injurious too,—

Count not their sum till the total is told,
For thou art unkind and untrue:

And if all thy harms are forgotten, forgiven,
Now mercy with justice is met,

Oh, who would not gladly take lessons of heaven,
Nor learn to forgive and forget?

Yes, yes; let a man, when his enemy weeps,
Be quick to receive him, a friend;

For thus on his head in kindness he heaps
Hot coals,—to refine and amend ;

And hearts that are Christian more eagerly yearn,
As a nurse on her innocent pet,

Over lips that, once bitter, to penitence turn,
And whisper, Forgive and forget.

413

LXXV.-ROBERT BURNS.

J. MONTGOMERY.

WHAT bird, in beauty, flight, or song,
Can with the Bard compare,

Who sang as sweet, and soar'd as strong,
As ever child of air!

His plume, his note, his form, could BURNS
For whim or pleasure change;
He was not one, but all by turns;
With transmigration strange!

The Blackbird, oracle of spring
When flow'd his moral lay;
The Swallow wheeling on the wing,
Capriciously at play :

The Humming-bird, from bloom to bloom,
Inhaling heavenly balm;

The Raven, in the tempest's gloom;
The Halcyon, in the calm:

The Woodlark, in his mournful hours;
The Goldfinch, in his mirth ;
The Thrush, a spendthrift of his powers,
Enrapturing heaven and earth;

The Swan, in majesty and grace,
Contemplative and still:

But roused,-no Falcon, in the chase,
Could like his satire, kill.

The Linnet in simplicity,

In tenderness the Dove;

But more than all beside was he
The Nightingale in love.

Oh, had he never stoop'd to shame,
Nor lent a charm to vice,
How had devotion loved to name
That Bird of Paradise!

Peace to the dead!-In Scotia's choir
Of Minstrels great and small,

He sprang from his spontaneous fire,
The Phoenix of them all.