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" Now, see'st thou aught in this lone seene
Can tell of that which late hath been?...

A stranger might reply,
The bare extent of stubble plain
Seems lately lighten'd of its grain;
And yonder sable tracts remain
Marks of the peasant's ponderous wain,

When harvest-home was nigh.
On these broad spots of trampled ground,
Perchance the rustics danced such

As Teniers lov'd to draw :
And where the earth seems scorch'd by fame,
To dress the homely feast they came,
And toil'd the kerchief'd village date

Arouod her fire ut straw!"
So deem'st thou- so each mortal deems,
Of that which is from that which scens:

But other harvest here
Than that which peasant's scythe demands,
Was gather'd in by sterner hands,

With bayonet, blade, and speat. . .1
No vulgar crop was theirs to reap,
No stinted harvest thin and cheap!
Heroes before each fatal sweep

Fell thick as ripen'd grain;
And ere the darkening of the day,
Piled high as autumn shocks, there lay
The ghastly harvest of the fray,

The corpses of the slain.
Aye, lool: again that line so black
And trainpled, marks the bivouack,
Yon deep-gruv'd ruts the artillery's track,

So often lost and won;
And close beside, the harden'd mud,
Still shows where, fetlock-deep in blood,
The fierce dragoon, through battle's Aloud,

Dash'd the hot war-hosse on.
These spor's of excavation tell
The savage of the bursting shell

And feel'st thou not the sainted steam,
That reeks against the sultry beam,

From youçler trenched moundi
The pestilential tumes declare
That carn ige has replenish'd there

Her gainer-house profound." This is in Scott's best manner; nor do we consider the following picture given by Swift of the assemblage of the troops as inferior in spirit and energy:

* They come !--Toe world in arins!—The nations come;

Strong in their quarrel, in their danger strong:
From every clime they strike the distant drum,

From every clime they call the countless throng,

To vindicate the Right, and quell the Wrong ...

Aug. Rep.


The tillers of a thousand plains are here,

Flashing on high the brand and bayonet;
The wourman and the hunter grasp their spear,
The fisher of the rock, the hardy mountaineer.
“ Prussia !—Thy war-worn sons their line array,

Eagerly straining for the strife renewed;

wrath of memory broods o'er Jena's day,
That rent thy sceptre-not thy soul subdued.

Stern Blucher smiles on the awaken'd feud,
How glad again the soldier-garb to wear!

The Landwehr spreads its lengthening multitude;
The sable standard lours aloft in air,
And every head is plumed, and every sword is bare.
But oh, the Island Band !-When march they forth,

Chaunting aloud their lay of battles won?
When from the West, the South, the rugged North,

Shall Erin green and dusky Caledon,
And snow-white Albion blend their strength in one!
Lo! there their Arthur's pennon proudly shines,

That erst the crimson hand of Victory spun:
There the red rose, the redder cross entwines,
And in their sanguine stream the war incarnadines.
Short season this, when at the war-note's swell

AU Europe gathers on the tented plain,
Short season for our timid muse to tell

Of Belgic, of Bavar, of Russe or Dane,
And legions stretched beyond her eye's last strain;
Their vanguard glimmering like a distant star.-

And thither speed the impatient sons of Spain; And, rushing from its ridgy Alp afar, Helvetia !-there descends thine Avalanche of war." The conflict is thus described by the anonymous author of the Heroic poem. « Hark to that crash!-was it tempest burn

And rolls it down from the arch of heaven?
Is it some rude rock by earthquake uptorn!-

And why is the welkin red and riven?
The welkin is red with the cannon's breath,
The welkin is riven with the voice of death,
And many a hand the sword is grasping,
And many a gallant form lies gasping.

The storm roars loud; swift speed the fires
That light a thousand funeral

The altars of the dead;
The drooping glade is wet with blood;
The spot where erst the valiant stood,

Is now the hero's bed.
By the dear memory of the past, i,
Intrepid Prussia, stand thee fast!


By mighty triumphs won,
On—as thou lovest a conqueror's naine,
By all thy hopes of fire and fame;

By all thy laurels-on!
Britons be bold! your fathers stood,
In Cressy's field, breast-bigh in blood;

Oh, emulate their fame;
Let not Aboukir's wreaths be torn,
Nor Maida's blooning laurels worn,

Mixed with the leaves of shame.
Stand, gallant guards; intrepid host,
Though dangers thicken round your post;

The morn is big with spoil.
Renown unlocks her sacred spring),
And richest wreaths shall evening bring

To crown a day of toil.
Be stout of heart, and strong of arm:
Let terror fly and hope be warm.

Repel the rebel foe;
For mad with impotent disdain,
They rush impetuous o'er the plain

To court their overthrow.
Swift at the word, the steel has sped,
And rais'd a rampart of the dead;

They fall, they reel, they fly :
Renew the charge :-the torrent food
Rolls back its reeking stream of blood;

That shout was victory.
On gallant guards, for by your side,
The Highland band, brave Scotland's pride,

Undaunted brave the fray;
On, brave Macdonnell, give the word,
Unloose the vigour of thy sword,

And win the glorious day:
Great was that charge—hurrah! they yield!
France trails her lines across the field,

Her lofty eagles fly:
As erst when Moskwa lock'd her streams,
And frozen death rode on the beams

Shot from an hostile sky.” Blucher's perilous situation entangled under his dead horse, and his hair-breadth escape, are told with much spirit:

“ New aids arrive, the strengthen'd foe
Gives back the fatal overthrow;

Now, Blucher, spur thy steed;
Furious and drunk from many a wound,
Thy tot pursuers tear the ground;

Thy life hangs on thy speed.
He falls:-protecting power that spread
Mists round the trembling Trojan's head,

His buckler and his guide'-
Heaven hears th' unfinishi'd prayer; the storm
Sweeps harmless round the veteran's form;

On rolls the battle-tide.


Now, Prussians, as ye love your chief,
Drive back the charge, give prumpt relief:

'Tis done :- with firma secuil,
Wheel back the bands, so lately riven,
With shouts that rend the vault of heaven,

And glory crowns their toil." The particulars of the fall of Sir W. Ponsonby are not, we believe, very generally known. He led his brigade against the Polish lancers, to check a destructive charge aimed at the British infantry. He was separated from his men, and, accompanied only by his aide-de-camp, was crossing a newlyploughed field to join his comrades. The ground was so soft, and the soil co tenacious, that his horse stuck fast. At this instant a body of lancers approached him at full speed. Sir W. aware of the event, was in the act of giving a picture and his watch to the aide-de-camp to be delivered to his family, when the lancers came up and instantly despatched both. His body was afterwards found lying by the side of his horse, pierced with no less than seven deep wounds. The author alludes to this sad event in lines full of tenderness,

“ Now curse upon thy base-born steed,
Whose mettle Hags in time of need;

And curse upon the soil!
By the strong share too newly riven,
And moistend by the rains of heaven,

In peril fraught and toil.
The hollow hoof the moisture drinks,
Bootless the pointed spur-he sinks !

In vain the warrior plies;
Steedsman and stced their toil bave done:
Now, Fortune, aid thy gallant son,

For Hope, apostate, fies.
One glance to Heaven the hero cast;
One glance of anguish, and thc last,

Amiction's parting throe;
Tis done; they sink beneath the storm,
While o'cr each mute and mangled torni

Exults thc savage foe.” The tribute to the illustrious Duke of Brunswick is short but emphatic :

« But woe to tell ! the setting sun
Show'd rich stains on the laurels won,

When perish'd Brunswick's pride;
Reckless of life, he nobly stood,
Amidst a wilderness of blood,

Beat back his foc and died.

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Ages unborn shall proudly tell
How well he fought, how greatly fell;

And consecrate his grave :
And time shall bear bis honour'd name,
Unfaded, to the porch of tame,

The temple of the brave.” We have been informed that about 5 o'clock an aide-de-camp came to state to the Duke of Wellington, that the fifth division was reduced from 4000 to little more than 400, and that it was impossible for them to maintain their position. "I cannot help it,' said the chief; they must keep their ground, and so must I to the last : Would to God that night or Blucher were come. It has been asserted that the Duke was adrised by some of his officers to think of effecting a retreat, as there did not appear any reasonable expectation of a successful issue. It is at least certain that a momentary doubt prevailed, not only in the French, but in the British army. It was about 7 o'clock when a brisk firing heard by the British in the rear of Bonaparte's right flank, announced the attack of the Prussians, who had been prevented from coming earlier into action by the difficulties of the march through the defile of St. Lambert. This critical posture of affairs is well described by Scott in the following stanzas :

“ Is there no hope? look out again;
Hiizza ! a squadron sweeps the plain ;

They must be here anon:
Then cheer ye, drooping messmates, cheer!
Renew the charge, support is near,

And glory urges on.
Swift through the lines the message flies,
And hope, and strength, and heart supplies;

Again they grasp the steel.
A second charge the bugle blows,
Again the gallant legions close,

The rebel columns reel.
They come! 'Tis Blucher takes the lead!
I know him by his English steed;

I know him by his shout :
Fired with a warrior's ardent flame,
I hear him cry—“On, on, for fame ;

Complete and crown the rout."
Viewing the havoc and dismay attending this retreat, W.
Scott thus addresses Napoleon :

“ But yet, to suin this hour of ill,
Look, cre thou leav'st the fatal hill,

Back on yon broken rauks-
Upon whose wild confusion gleams
The moon, as 'on tlie troubled strcains

When rivers break their banks,

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