To attend to any thing so low As what I say or do, Regard, and be what thou wast ever-kind. Let not the blest above Engross thee quite, but sometimes hither rove: Fain would I thy sweet image see, And sit and talk with thee; Nor is it curiosity, but love. Ah, what delight 'twould be Wouldst thou sometimes by stealth converse with me! How should I thy sweet commune prize, Come, then I ne'er was yet denied by thee. I would not long detain Thy soul from bliss, nor keep thee here in pain; Nor should thy fellow-saints ere know Of thy escape below : Before thou'rt missed, thou shouldst return again. Sure, Heaven must needs thy love As well as other qualities improve! Come then, and recreate my sight With rays of thy pure light: 'Twill cheer my eyes more than the lamps above. But if Fate's so severe As to confine thee to thy blissful sphere, (And by thy absence I shall know Whether thy state be so,) Live happy but be mindful of me there. J. NORRIS 20. THE EVE OF THE BATTLE OF QUATRE BRAS 1 THERE was a sound of revelry by night, The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising bell. Did ye not hear it?-No; 'twas but the wind, meet, To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet— But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat: And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is-it is the cannon's opening roar ! Within a windowed niche of that high hall 1 Fought 16th June 1815, two days before the Battle of Waterloo. 2 The Duke of Brunswick was killed at Quatre Bras. That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father1 on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness: And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise? And there was mounting in hot haste the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar ; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips-"The foe! they come! they come !" 1 His father died of his wounds at Jena, 1806. And wild and high the "Cameron's Gathering" rose! The war-note of Lochiel,1 which Albyn's 2 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 mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! And Ardennes 3 waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 1 The chief of the clan of the Camerons. 2 Scotland. 3 Strictly, the forest of Soignies, regarded here as an extension of the Ardennes. The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse,—friend, foe, in one red burial blent ! BYRON 21.--PROUD MAISIE PROUD MAISIE is in the wood, Sweet Robin sits on the bush Singing so rarely. "Tell me, thou bonny bird, "The glowworm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing 6 Welcome, proud lady.'' W. SCOTT |