To stain the wintry flood, with gore,
Say, do ye call the Sons of France?
Say, do ye bid Rebellion grasp the lance!

The songs of death I hear you sing,
Denouncing woe to ravag'd earth,-
The ministers of wrath ye bring,
Ye summon giant ills, to birth,

Intestine wars, and flame and dearth;
Each mighty plague, at heav'n's commands,
That waves her iron scourge o'er guilty lands.

Again I understand that yell

Ye call the ships from Gallia's coast"Waft-hither waft the dogs of hell, "Imprison'd, for a day we boast,

"To keep the matchless naval host, "That Albion's conquering thunder bear; "To fill th' astonish'd world with awe and fear."

If led by destinies of ill,

That human prudence may not mar,
The foe th' advent'rous course fulfil;
Then comfort shall be distant far ;—
And dire must be the tug of war;

What blood shall stream! what flames shall burn!
How late-how late-shall blessed Peace return!

VOL. III.

Fugitive Poetry.

FUGITIVE POETRY.

THE SWISS EMIGRANT.

FAREWELL, farewell, my native land,
A long farewell to joy and thee!
On thy last rock I lingering stand,
Thy last rude rock how dear to me!

Once more I view thy vallies fair,
But dimly view, with tearful eye;
Once more I breathe thy healthful air,
But breathe it in how deep a sigh!

Ye vales with downy verdure spread,
Ye groves
that drink the sparkling stream,
As bursting from the mountain's head
Its foaming waves in silver gleam;

Ye lakes that catch the golden beam
That floods with fire yon peak of snow,

As evening vapours bluely steam

And stilly roll their volumes slow ;—

Scenes, on this bursting heart impress'd
By ev'ry thrill of joy, of woe;
The bliss of childhood's vacant breast,
Of warmer youth's empassion'd glow;

The tears by filial duty shed

Upon the low, the peaceful tomb;
Where sleep, too blest, the reverend dead,
Unconscious of their country's doom;

Say! can Helvetia's patriot child,
A wretched exile, bear to roam,
Nor sink upon the lonely wild,

Nor die to leave his native home?

His native home? no home has he-
He scorns in servile yoke to bow,
He scorns the land no longer free,
Alas-he has no country now!

Ye snow-clad Alps whose mighty mound,
Great NATURE'S adamantine wall,
In vain opposed your awful bound
To check the prone-descending Gaul;

What Hunter now with daring leaps

Shall chase the Ibex o'er your rocks, Who clothe with vines your craggy steeps, Who guard from wolves your rambling flocks?

While low the free-born sons of toil

Lie sunk amid the slaughter'd brave, To Freedom true, the stubborn soil

Shall pine, and starve the puny slave.