He loosed the rein, his slack hand fell ;
Upon the silent face

He cast one long, deep, troubled look-
Then turn'd from that sad place.
His hope was crush'd, his after fate
Untold in martial strain;

His banners led the spears no more,

Amid the hills of Spain.-MRS HEMANS.

SCIPIO'S GENEROSITY.

When, to his glorious first essay in war,
New Carthage fell, there all the flower of Spain
Were kept in hostage: a full field presenting
For Scipio's generosity to shine.-A noble virgin,
Conspicuous far o'er all the captive dames,

An eye,

Was mark'd the general's prize. She wept, and blush'd;
Young, fresh, and blooming, like the morn.
As when the blue sky trembles through a cloud
Of purest white. A secret charm combined

Her features, and infused enchantment through them.
Her shape was harmony. But eloquence

Beneath her beauty fails; which seem'd on purpose
By nature lavish'd on her, that mankind
Might see the virtue of a hero tried

Almost beyond the stretch of human force.
Soft as she pass'd along with downcast eyes,
Where gentle sorrow swell'd, and, now and then,
Dropp'd o'er her modest cheeks a trickling tear,
The Roman legions languish'd, and hard War
Felt more than pity; even their chief himself,
As on his high tribunal raised he sat,

Turn'd from the dangerous sight, and chiding, ask'd
His officers, if by this gift they meant

To cloud his glory in its very dawn.

She, question'd of her birth, in trembling accents,
With tears and blushes broken, told her tale.
But when he found her royally descended;
Of her old captive parents the sole joy;
And that a hapless Celtiberian prince,
Her lover, and beloved, forgot his chains,
His lost dominions, and for her alone

Wept out his tender soul; sudden the heart
Of this young, conquering, loving, godlike Roman
Felt all the great divinity of virtue.

His wishing youth stood check'd, his tempting power
Restrain'd by kind humanity.-At once

He for her parents and her lover call'd.

The various scene imagine. How his troops
Look'd dubious on, and wonder'd what he meant ;
While stretch'd below the trembling suppliants lay,
Rack'd by a thousand mingling passions-fear,
Hope, jealousy, disdain, submission, grief,
Anxiety, and love in every shape.

To these as different sentiments succeeded,
As mix'd emotions, when the man divine
Thus the dread silence to the lover broke:

"We both are young; both charm'd. The right of war
Has put thy beauteous mistress in my power;
With whom I could, in the most sacred ties,
Lead out a happy life. But know that Romans,
Their hearts, as well as enemies, can conquer;
Then, take her to thy soul: and with her take
Thy liberty and kingdom. In return,

you

I ask but this-when behold these eyes,
These charms with transport, be a friend to Rome."
Ecstatic wonder held the lovers mute;

While the loud camp, and all the clustering crowd
That hung around, rang with repeated shouts.
Fame took the alarm, and through resounding Spain
Blew fast the fair report; which more than arms
Admiring nations to the Romans gain'd.-THOMSON.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse o'er the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero was buried.

We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's dusky light,
And our lanterns dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his restWith his martial cloak around him!

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of to-morrow-

We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow-

How the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring, And we heard by the distant and random That the foe was suddenly firing

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

gun,

From the field of his fame, fresh and gory! We'carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone in his glory!—WOLFE.

THE SUNSET, OF BATTLE.

Twilight closes,
The last charg-

The shadows of evening are thickening. and the thin mists are rising in the valley. ing squadron yet thunders in the distance; but it presses only on the foiled and scattered foe. For this day the fight is over! And those who rode foremost in its field at morning-where are they now? On the bank of yon little stream, there lies a knight, his life-blood is ebbing faster than its tide. His shield is rent, and his lance is broken. Soldier, why faintest thou? The blood that swells from that deep wound will answer. It was this morning that the sun rose

bright upon his hopes-it sets upon his grave. This day he led the foremost rank of spears, that in their long row levelled when they had crossed their foe's dark line then death shouted in the onset! It was the last blow that reached him. He has conquered, though he shall not triumph in the victory. His breastplate is dinted. His helmet has the traces of well-dealt blows. The scarf on his breast-she would shrink but to touch it now who placed it there. Soldier, what will thy mistress say? She will say that the knight died worthily.

Aye, rouse thee, for the fight yet charges in the distance! Thy friends are shouting-thy pennon floats on high. Look on yon crimsoned field that seems to mock the purple clouds above it! prostrate they lie, drenched in their dark red pool; thy friends and enemies; the dead and dying! The veteran, with the stripling of a day. The nameless trooper, and the leader of a hundred hosts. Friend lies by friend. The steed with his rider. And foes, linked in their long embrace -their first and last-the gripe of death. Far o'er the field they lie, a gorgeous prey to ruin! White plume and steel morion; sabre and yataghan; crescent and cross; rich vest and bright corslet; we came to the fight, as we had come to a feasting; glorious and glittering, even in death, each shining warrior lies!

cry

His last glance still seeks that Christian banner!

The

that shall never be repeated, cheers on its last charge. Oh, but for strength to reach the field once more! to die in the foe's front! Peace, dreamer! Thou hast done well. Thy place in the close rank is filled; and yet another waits for his who holds it.

Knight, hast thou yet a thought? bend it on Heaven! The past is gone; the future lies before thee. Gaze on yon gorgeous sky; thy home should be beyond it! Life, honour, love-they pass to Him that gave them. Pride, that came on like ocean's billows-see round thee how it lies mute and passive. The wealthy here are poor. The high-born have no precedence. The strong are powerless. The mean content. The fair and lovely have no followers. Soldier! she who sped thee on thy course to-day, her blue eyes shall seek thee in the conquering ranks to-morrow; but it shall seek thee in vain! Well! thus it is thou shouldst have died! -worth all to live for. Wouldst thou be base to have thy death a blessing?

Proud necks shall mourn for thee.

Bright eyes shall weep for thee. They that live envy thee. Death! glory takes out thy sting!

Warrior! aye, the stream of that rill flows cool; but thy lip no more shall taste it. The moonlight that silvers its white foam, shall glitter on thy corslet, when thy eye is closed and dim. Lo! now the night is coming. The mist is gathering on the hill. The fox steals forth to seek his quarry, and the grey owl sweeps whirling by, rejoicing in the stillness. Oh, soldier! how sweetly sounds thy lady's lute! how fragrant are the dews! sprinkled flowers that twine round the casement from which she leans! that lute shall enchant thee, those flowers shall delight thee, no more!

One other charge! Soldier, it may not be. To thy saint and thy lady commend thee! Hark to the low trumpet that sounds the recall! Hark to its long note; sweet is that sound in the ears of the spent and routed foe!

The victor hears it not. When the breath rose that blew that note, he lived; its peal has rung, and his spirit has departed. Heath! thou shouldst be the soldier's pillow! Moon! let thy cold light this night fall upon him! But, morning, thy soft dews shall tempt him not! the soldier must wake no more. He sleeps in the sleep of honour. His cause was his country's freedom, and her faith. He is dead! The cross of a Christian knight is on his breast; his lips are pressed to his lady's token. Soldier, farewell!

WATERLOO.

Stop!-for thy tread is on an Empire's dust!
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust?
Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so.
As the ground was before, thus let it be.
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee,
Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;