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Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind,

And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.-Wordsworth..

THE JESTER CONDEMNED TO DEATH.

ONE of the Kings of Scanderoon,

A Royal Jester,

Had in his train a gross buffoon,
Who used to pester

The court with tricks inopportune,
Venting on the highest folk his
Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes.

It needs some sense to play the fool,
Which wholesome rule

Occurr'd not to our jackanapes,
Who consequently found his freaks
Lead to innumerable scrapes,
And quite as many kicks and tweaks,
Which only seemed to make him faster
Try the patience of his master.

Some sin, at last, beyond all measure,
Incurr'd the desperate displeasure

Of his serene and raging highness:
Whether he twitch'd his most revered
And sacred beard,

Or had intruded on the shyness

Of the Seraglio, or let fly

An epigram at royalty,

None knows: his sin was an occult one ;
But records tell us that the Sultan,
Meaning to terrify the knave,

Exclaim'd-""Tis time to stop that breath;
Thy doom is seal'd: presumptuous slave!
Thou stand'st condemned to certain death.

Silence, base rebel! no replying!
But such is my indulgence still,
That, of my own free grace and will,
I leave to thee the mode of dying."

"Thy royal will be done 'tis just,"
Replied the wretch, and kiss'd the dust;
Since, my last moments to assuage,
Your Majesty's humane decree

66

Has deign'd to leave the choice to me,

I'll die, so please you-OF OLD AGE!"-Horace Smith.

CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

HALF a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred!
"Forward the LIGHT BRIGADE!
CHARGE FOR THE GUNS!" he said.
Into the Valley of Death
Rode the Six Hundred.

FORWARD THE LIGHT BRIGADE!
Was there a man dismayed!
Not though the soldiers knew
Some one had blundered!
Their 's not to reason why,
Their's not to make reply,
Their's but to do and die;-
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred!

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them,

Volleyed and thundered:

Stormed at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well;

Into the jaws of death,

Into the mouth of hell,

Rode the six hundred!

Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed all at once in air,

Sab'ring the gunners there,
Charging an army,—while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery smoke,
Fiercely the line they broke ;
Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the sabre stroke,
Shaken and sundered:
Then they rode back,-but not,——
Not the six hundred!

Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon behind them,

Volleyed and thundered:
Stormed at with shot and shell,
They who had struck so well,
Rode through the jaws of death
Half a league back again,
Up from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,--
Left of six hundred!

When can their glory fade!
Oh! the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered!

Honour the brave and bold!
Long shall the tale be told-

Yea, when our babes are old

How they rode onward!-Tennyson.

DEATH OF MARMION.

WITH fruitless labour, Clara bound and strove to stanch the gushing wound: the Monk, with unavailing cares, exhausted all the Church's prayers. Ever, he said, that, close and near, a lady's voice was in his ear, and that the priest he could not hear, for that she ever sung,-"In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!" So the notes rung;-"Avoid thee, fiend!-with cruel hand, shake not the dying sinner's hand!--Oh, look my son, upon yon sign of the Redeemer's grace divine; Oh, think on faith and bliss!-By many a death-bed I have been, and many a sinner's parting seen, but never aught like this."

The war, that for a space did fail, now trebly thundering swell'd the gale, and STANLEY! was the cry;-a light on Marmion's visage spread, and fired his glazing eye: with dying hand, above his head he shook the fragment of his hlade, and shouted "VICTORY!-CHARGE, CHESTER, CHARGE! ON, STANLEY, ON!" were the last words of Marmion.-Sir Walter Scott.

EVE OF WATERLO0.

THERE was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,.

And all went merry as a marriage-bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !

Did ye not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure 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
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
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 father 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 throng'd the citizens with terror dumb,

Or whispering, with white lips-"THE FOE! THEY COME !
THEY COME!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose,
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's 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 waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,

Over the unreturning brave,-alas !

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,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,

The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms, the day
Battle's magnificently-stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent,
Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!

-Byron.

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