THE BATTLE OF BUSACO.

BY SIR A. DE VERE.

[Sir Aubrey De Vere was born in the year 1786, and after a life well spent in the performance of his duty as a good landlord and an active country gentleman, died at his seat, Curragh Chase, county of Limerick, in 1846. He was distinguished for his literary attainments, and for his high poetic genius. He was the author of several dramatic works, in which he depicts the tragic passions with power and truthfulness; his poems and songs are instinct with grace and feeling. Among his works are "Mary Tudor," "The Lamentation of Ireland," &c., The Duke of Mercia," "Julian the Apostate," "The Search after Proserpine," and some minor poems.

The Battle of Busaco was fought between the combined British and Portuguese armies, and the French, on the 27th September 1810. The former were commanded by Wellington, Hill, Crawfurd and Picton, and numbered fifty thousand men; the latter by Massena, Ney (Duke of Elchingen), and Regnier, and were sixty thousand strong. Wellington had been retreating before the superior forces of Massena, who boasted that he would drive the English leopards into the sea. The British General having now obtained the most favourable position of the Sierra, determined to check Massena's further pursuit. Preparations were immediately made, and the forces were disposed in proper order of battle. At day-dawn, and whilst the mist and grey clouds were rolling away, Ney's division advanced straight up the hill against Crawfurd's, and in spite of all opposition gained the crest of the Ridge, but were immediately repulsed by a furious and deadly bayonet-charge made by the 88th and 45th regiments. In the struggle both parties mingled together, and fought hand to hand, down the mountain-side, amidst the greatest clamour and confusion,-the dead and dying strewing the way to the bottom of the valley. After a short time the French reformed their ranks, and under Loison again ascended with wonderful alacrity, in defiance of musketry and artillery, to the very crest of the hollow, scooped out of the Ridge, in which the British were intrenched; their order was never disturbed nor their speed diminished till their victorious cries were heard within a few yards of the summit. In this emergency Colonel Wallace, who was without orders, turned to his men and addressed to them a few stirring words,- telling them to reserve their fire till they could press upon the enemy to the muzzle. In an instant the wild and terrific shout of the Connaught Rangers startled the French Column, and two thousand bayonets went bristling over the brow of the hill. In twenty minutes, the murderous conflict was decided, and the heroes of Marengo and Austerlitz reeled before the thunder-shout of Faugh a ballagh! The ballad describes the French as a "recreant train," and says that they fled unresistingly. Such was not the fact. General Napier, who can extol the gallantry of an enemy, as brave men only can, says of this battle,-that after the most astonishing efforts of valour, the French were repulsed in the manner to be expected from the strength of the ground and the efficiency of the soldiers opposed to them. And that on the British side musketry and artillery were brought into full and deadly activity, whilst the French sought to gain the day by daring resolution, rather than by fire. About 4,000 of the French were slain, and 1,300 British and Portuguese.]

THE shadows lie broad on yon mountainous heath,
And deep sinks the gloom in the valleys beneath;
Black clouds veil the sky, and the night-breeze blows chill
From the wild matted woods round the base of the hill.
But the wind dies away as the morning is near,

And the gathering of foemen sounds sharp on the ear;
For the morrow's first sun must behold their array
As they march to the Battle, and challenge the fray!

The dawn kindles fast; as an inflowing tide
The bright beams dilate o'er a wilderness wide;
Like isles of the air beams each pinnacled height,

With its feet wrapped in clouds, and its head crown'd with light,
While darkness still broods o'er the dingles below,
And Mondego's fierce currents in solitude flow.
There's a tremulous gleam through the vapoury air,
Where the tower-crown'd ridge of Busaco stands bare.

And the long level ray of the morning illumes
A bright throng of bayonets, banners, and plumes!
But the silence of nature, the calm of the hour
Is preserved by that resolute host in their power.
How softly the heath-scented gale breathes around!
How sweet grows from distance the waterfall's sound,
As its deep tone unites with the dove's matin song,
And the melody floats on the breezes along'

Oh! breezes of Heaven, how soon must ye swell
With the thunders of battle, and combatants' yell!
Pure torrents! how soon must ye burst on the plain,
All crimson'd with slaughter-all choked with the slain !
Hark! hark! 'twas the dreadful artillery's roar!
And Mondego, re-echoing, shouts from his shore!
O'er the smoke proudly hover the eagles of France-
Thro' the sulphurous gloom the invaders advance!—

Hark again! 'twas the drum-'twas the trumpets' fierce clang,
And the madd'ning huzzas of the vanguard that rang.
See, they scale the steep rocks-see, the summit is won,
And as thousands are crush'd, bolder thousands rush on.
Vain-vain every toil, for the Britons are there,
And the Red Cross triumphantly floats on the air;
And the brave sons of Erin are there in their might,
While invincible Wellington marshals the fight!

There, foremost, he stands, where the thickest balls fly,
And Victory follows the glance of his eye!—
Spur, Elchingen, spur! push thy charger ahead
Though he trample alike both the dying and dead;
For thy panic-struck bands fly the bayonets' shock,
As some wild torrent headlong leaps forth from a rock—
Spur, Elchingen, spur, o'er the dying and slain,
And curb the wild rout of yon recreant train.

For all scatter'd like sparks from a down-trodden fire,
Unresisting they fly, unavailing expire!

Oh vain every effort!-who dreameth to bind

The surges of ocean, or limit the wind?

Still they fly, but the death-shout resounds in their ear;

And the tramp of the foemen grows near and more near; For Britain now bursts on the fugitive throng,

And sweeps like an avalanche, resistless along!

'Tis sunset-- and now, from the bright edge of heaven,

Yon orb shoots aloft the last glories of even;

And the glowing clouds float o'er the bright crimson sky,
Like standards of Vict'ry unfurl'd on high!
O'er far Caramula the deep blood-red stain,

As if risen from earth, streams from heaven again;
And Estrella seems dyed to her snowiest peak,
Like the deepening flush of a mild maiden's cheek.

"Tis sunset-the sounds of the fight die away;
The conflict expires with the waning of day;
The fugitives rush through the dark ilex shade,
And fling from their grasp the encumbering blade—
Yet hark! still arise from the path of the foe
New records of vengeance-new wailings of woe;
The villages blaze, and beneath the red gleam

Swell the shouts of the spoiler-the victims' wild scream.

The foe, like the drag of a fast ebbing tide,
Is fiercest at parting, and none may abide!
The tempest is past-but, what murmurs are these,
That fitfully pass on the swell of the breeze?—
"Twas the last sob of pain-the last struggle of death,
And the sad stifled moan of the soldier's last breath.

THE WAR NOTE.

BY T. D. M'GEE.

GATHER together the nations! proclaim the war to all:
Armour and sword are girding in palace, and tower, and hall,
The Kings of the earth are donning their feudal mail again,
Gather together the nations! arouse and arm THE MEN.

Who cometh from the icy north? 'Tis Russia's mighty Czar;
With giant hand he pointeth to a never-setting star.

The Cossack springs on his charger-the Tartar leaves his den! Ho! herald souls of Europe, arouse and arm THE MEN.

What does the Frank at Rome, with the Russian at the Rhine? And Albion, pallid as her cliffs, shows neither soul nor sign; See how pale Bomba trembles in his foul Sicilian fen.

Ho! wardens of the world's strongholds, arouse and arm THE MEN.

The future circleth nearer on its grey portentous wings,
Pale are the cheeks of Princes, and sore afraid are Kings!
Once faced by the furious nations, they'll flee in fear, and then,
By the right divine of the fittest, we shall have the reign of MEN!

OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING.

BY THOMAS MOORE.

OH, the sight entrancing,

When morning's beam is glancing
O'er files array'd

With helm and blade,

And plumes, in the gay wind dancing!
When hearts are all high beating,
And the trumpet's voice repeating

That song whose breath

May lead to death,

But never to retreating.

Oh, the sight entrancing,

When morning's beam is glancing

O'er files array'd

With helm and blade,

And plumes in the gay wind dancing.

Yet, 'tis not helm or feather-
For ask yon despot, whether
His plumed bands

Could bring such hands

And hearts as ours together.

Leave pomps to those who need 'em-
Give man but heart and freedom,
And proud he braves

The gaudiest slaves

That crawl where monarchs lead 'em.
The sword may pierce the beaver,
Stone walls in time may sever,
'Tis mind alone,

Worth steel and stone,

That keeps men free for ever.
Oh, that sight entrancing,

When the morning's beam is glancing,
O'er files array'd

With helm and blade,
And in Freedom's cause advancing!

THE HERMIT.

BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

"TURN, gentle hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray;

"For here, forlorn and lost, I tread
With fainting steps and slow-
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go.'

"Forbear, my son," the hermit cries,
"To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.