And left it for a prison: 'twas in June,
One of June's brightest days-the bee, the bird,
The butterfly, were on their lightest wing;
The fruits had their first tinge of summer light;
The sunny sky, the very leaves seemed glad,
And the old man looked back upon his cottage,
And wept aloud:-they hurried him away,
And the dear child that would not leave his side.
They led him from the sight of the blue heaven
And the green trees, into a low, dark cell,
The windows shutting out the blessed sun,
With iron grating; and for the first time
He threw him on his bed, and could not hear
His Isabel's good night.
But the next morn
She was the earliest at the prison gate,
The last on whom it closed, and her sweet voice,
And sweeter smile, made him forget to pine.
She brought him every morning fresh wild flowers;
But every morning could he mark her cheek
Grow paler and more pale, and her low tones
Get fainter and more faint, and a cold dew
Was on the hand he held. One day he saw
The sunshine through the gratings of his cell,
Yet Isabel came not; at every sound
His heart-beat took away his breath, yet still
She came not near him. But on one sad day
He marked the dull street, through the iron bars,
That shut him from the world; at length he saw
A coffin carried carelessly along,
And he grew desperate; he forced the bars;
And he stood on the street free and alone.
He had no aim, no wish for liberty-
He only felt one want, to see the corpse
That had no mourners; when they set it down,
Ere 'twas lowered into the new dug grave,
A rush of passion came upon his soul,
And he tore off the lid, and saw the face
Of Isabel, and knew he had no child!
He lay down by the coffin quietly-
His heart was broken!-LANDON.
THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly:
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery!
By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry;
Then shook the hills with thunder riven !
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven !
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery!
But redder yet those fires shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly!
'Tis morn-but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy!
The combat deepens-on, ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet;
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall mark a soldier's sepulchre !-CAMPBELL.
The spearman heard the bugle sound,
And cheerily smiled the morn,
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Attend Llewellyn's horn:
And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a louder cheer;
"Come, Gelert! why art thou the last
Llewellyn's horn to hear?
"Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam?
The flower of all his race!
So true, so brave, a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase!"
"Twas only at Llewellyn's board The faithful Gelert fed;
He watch'd, he served, he cheer'd his lord, And sentinel'd his bed.
In sooth, he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John;
But now no Gelert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.
And now, as over rocks and dells
The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowdown's craggy chaos yells,
With many mingled cries.
That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare,
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.
Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,
When, near the portal seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.
But, when he gain'd his castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound was smear'd with gouts of gore,
His lips and fangs ran blood!
Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,
Unused such looks to meet;
His favourite check'd his joyful guise,
And crouch'd and lick'd his feet.
Onward in haste Llewellyn pass'd
(And on went Gelert too),
And still, where'er his eyes were cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his view!
O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
The blood-stain'd covert rent,
And, all around, the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.
He call'd his child. -no voice replied;
He search'd-with terror wild;
Blood! blood! he found on every side,
But no where found the child!
"Hell-hound! by thee my child's devour'd!" The frantic father cried,
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side!
His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart ;
But still his Gelert's dying yell
Pass'd heavy o'er his heart.
Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer waken'd nigh;
What words the parent's joy can tell,
To hear his infant cry!
Conceal'd beneath a mangled heap,
His hurried search had miss'd,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub boy he kiss'd!
Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread
But the same couch beneath
Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead-
Tremendous still in death!
Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear;
The gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewellyn's heir.
Vain, vain, was all Llewellyn's wo:
"Best of thy kind, adieu !
The frantic deed which laid thee low,
This heart shall ever rue!"
And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture deck'd;
And marbles, storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert's bones protect.
Here never could the spearman pass,
Or forester, unmoved;
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewellyn's sorrow proved.
And here he hung his horn and spear;
And, oft as evening fell,
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell!-SPENCER.
There is no season of the year so exquisite as the first full burst of Summer, when east winds lose their venom, and the firmament its April fickleness; when the trees have unreefed their foliage, and under them the turf is tender; when, before going to sleep, the blackbird wakes the nightingale, and night itself is only a softer day; when the dog-star has not withered a single flower, nor the mower's scythe touched one; but all is youth and freshness, novelty and hope-as if our very earth had become a bud, of which only another Eden could be the blossom-as if, with all her green canvass
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