Their hero has rush'd to the field,

His laurels are cover'd with shade,—

But where is the spirit that never should yield,
The loyalty never to fade?

In a moment desertion and guile

Abandon'd him up to the foe;

The dastards that flourish'd and grew in his smile,
Forsook and renounced him in woe;

And the millions that swore they would perish to save,
Behold him a fugitive, captive, and slave.

The savage, all wild in his glen,

Is nobler and better than thou!
Thou standest a wonder, a marvel to men!
Such perfidy blackens thy brow.
If thou wert the place of my birth,

At once from thy arms would I sever;
I'd fly to the uttermost ends of the earth,
And quit thee for ever and ever;

And thinking of thee, in my long after-years,
Should but kindle my blushes and waken my tears.

Oh, shame to thee, land of the Gaul!
Oh, shame to thy children and thee!
Unwise in thy glory and base in thy fall,
How wretched thy portion shall be!
Derision shall strike thee forlorn,

A mockery that never shall die;
The curses of hate and the hisses of scorn
Shall burthen the winds of thy sky;

And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurl'd
The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the world.

Helvellyn.

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I

Helvellyn.

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.

CLIMB'D the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,

Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide,

All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,

And starting around me the echoes replied;

On the right, Strathen-edge round the Red Tarn was bending, And Catchedecam its left verge was defending,

One huge nameless rock on the front was impending,

When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had died.

Dark green was the spot, mid the brown mountain heather,
Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretch'd in decay;
Like the corpse of an outcast, abandon'd to weather,
Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay;
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For faithful in death, his mute favourite attended,
The much-loved remains of his master defended,
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind moved his garments, how oft didst thou start?

How many long days and long nights didst thou number,
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
But ah! was it meet, that no requiem read o'er him,
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,
And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him,
Unhonour'd, the pilgrim from life should depart?

T

When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded,

The tap'stry waves dark through the dim-lighted hall; With 'scutcheons of silver, the coffin is shielded,

And pages stand mute by the canopied pall;

Through the courts at deep midnight the torches are gleaming,

In the proudly arch'd chapel the banners are beaming,
Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,
Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb,
When 'wilder'd he drops from some cliff huge in stature,
And draws his last sob by the side of his dam;
And more stately thy couch, by this distant lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,
With but one faithful friend to witness thee dying
In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedecam.

The Heavenly Rest.

HERE is an hour of peaceful rest

THER

To mourning wanderers given;
There is a tear for souls distress'd,
A balm for every wounded breast-
'Tis found above-in heaven!

There is a soft, a downy bed,

Fair as the breath of even;

A couch for weary mortals spread,
Where they may rest the aching head,
And find repose in heaven!

On the Death of Lord Byron.

There is a home for weary souls,

By sin and sorrow driven;

When toss'd on life's tempestuous shoals,
Where storms arise, and ocean rolls,
And all is drear but heaven!

There faith lifts up the tearful eye,
The heart with anguish riven;
And views the tempest passing by,
The evening shadows quickly fly,
And all serene in heaven!

There fragrant flowers immortal bloom,
And joys supreme are given :
There rays divine disperse the gloom:
Beyond the confines of the tomb,
Appears the dawn of heaven!

Irregular Ode,

ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON.

WE

BY THE REV. C. C. COLTON.

E mourn thy wreck; that mighty mind
Did whirlwind passions whelm,

While wisdom waver'd, half inclined
To quit the dangerous helm.
Thou wast an argosy of cost,

Equipp'd, enrich'd in vain,

Of gods the work-of men the boast
Glory thy port-and doom'd to gain
That splendid haven, only to be lost!

291

Lost, even when Greece, with conquest bless'à,

Thy gallant bearing hail'd;

Then sighs from valour's mailèd breast,

And tears of beauty fail'd;

Oh! hadst thou in the battle died,

Triumphant even in death,

The patriot's as the poet's pride,

While both Minervas twined thy wreath,

Then had thy full career malice and fate defied!

What architect, with choice design,
—Of Rome or Athens styled—
E'er left a monument like thine?
And all from ruins piled!

A prouder motto marks thy stone
Than Archimedes' tomb;

He ask'd a fulcrum-thou demandedst none,

But, reckless of past, present, and to come,

Didst on thyself depend, to shake the world-alone!

Thine eye to all extremes and ends

And opposites could turn,

And, like the congelated lens,

Could sparkle, freeze, or burn;

But in thy mind's abyss profound,

As in some limbo vast,

More shapes and monsters did abound,

To set the wondering world aghast,

Than wave-worn Noah fed, or starry Tuscan found!

Was love thy lay-Cithæra rein'd

Her car, and own'd the spell!

Was hate thy theme—that murky fiend

For hotter earth left hell!