141

PEACE AND WAR.

How beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh,
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear,
Were discord to the speaking quietude

That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon

ΙΟ

To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle years,
Robed in a garment of untrodden snow ;
Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend,
So stainless, that their white and glittering spires
Tinge not the moon's pure beam; yon castled

steep,

Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower
So idly, that rapt fancy deemeth it

A metaphor of peace ;-all form a scene
Where musing solitude might love to lift
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness;
Where silence undisturbed might watch alone,
So cold, so bright, so still.-

Ah! whence yon glare

15

20

That fires the arch of heaven?-That dark red

smoke

Blotting the silver moon? The stars are quench'd In darkness, and the pure and spangling snow Gleams faintly through the gloom that gathers

round!

24

Hark to that roar, whose swift and deafening peals
In countless echoes through the mountains ring,
Startling pale Midnight on her starry throne !
Now swells the intermingling din; the jar,
Frequent and frightful, of the bursting bomb;
The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shout,
The ceaseless clangour, and the rush of men
Inebriate with rage :-loud and more loud

29

35

The discord grows; till pale death shuts the scene,
And o'er the conqueror and the conquer'd draws
His cold and bloody shroud. Of all the men
Whom day's departing beam saw blooming there,
In proud and vigorous health; of all the hearts
That beat with anxious life at sunset there;
How few survive, how few are beating now!
All is deep silence, like the fearful calm
That slumbers in the storm's portentous pause;
Save when the frantic wail of widow'd love
Comes shuddering on the blast, or the faint moan,
With which some soul bursts from the frame of clay,
Wrapt round its struggling powers.

The gray morn

40

45

Dawns on the mournful scene; the sulphurous

smoke

Before the icy wind slow rolls away,

And the bright beams of frosty morning dance 49
Along the spangling snow. There tracks of blood,
Even to the forest's depth, and scattered arms,
And lifeless warriors, whose hard lineaments
Death's self could change not, mark the dreadful
path

Of the outsallying victors: far behind

Black ashes note where their proud city stood. 55 Within yon forest is a gloomy glen

Each tree which guards its darkness from the day Waves o'er a warrior's tomb.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

THE MOUNTAIN-TOP.

POOR is the man, however great his wealth,
To whom the sunshine yields no mental health;
To whom the music of the early birds
Can bring no solace sweet as spoken words;
To whom the torrent, with its ceaseless hymn,
The streamlet wending through the copses dim,

5

The upland lake, reflecting moon and star,
Or mighty ocean gleaming from afar ;
The roar of branches in the wintry woods,
The solemn diapason of the floods,

All sights and sounds in Nature's varied range,
Lovely in all and good in every change,
Can bring no charm serene, no joy refined,
To please his heart or elevate his mind.

But rich is he, however scant of gold,

Who, in despite of sorrows manifold,
Can find a joy at morn or eventide,

And fresh instruction on the mountain-side;

10

15

Who loves the wisdom which the woodland yields, And all the dewy beauty of the fields.

Welcome to him, with a companion fit,

20

Th' umbrageous depths where noonday chequers flit,
The shady path, the voice of brawling streams,
The silent pool where sunlight never beams,
The snowy summits of the Alpine peak,

25

The hopeful splendour on the morning's cheek,
The glow of noon, the evening's tender light,
And all the placid majesty of night,

The peace and joy, the hope and love that dwell
In Nature's eyes, for those who love her well.

30

How cheerily the voices of the morn Rise as we go! The lark has left the corn, And sings her glad hosannas to the day; The blackbird trolls his rich notes far away; While from th' awaken'd homestead far adown, 35 Come floating up the murmurs of the town. Hark to the day's shrill trumpeter, the cock— The bark of hounds—the bleating of the flockThe lowing of the milk-o'erburden'd kineAnd laugh of children; sweetest music mine. 40

Upwards, still up!—and all these sounds expire In the faint distance, save that, mounting higher, We still can hear, descending from the cloud, The lark's triumphal anthem, long and loud.

Or far away, a wanderer from the bowers,

Rifling for sweets the now infrequent flowers,
A solitary bee goes buzzing by,

With livery coat, and bundle at his thigh;
With honest music, telling all that will,
How great a worker rambles on the hill.

A streamlet gushes on the mountain-side,
It yields a draught to men of sloth denied ;
Unknown to all who love the easy street

45

50

Better than crags where cloud and mountain meet,—

Unprized, untasted in the plodding town,

55

Where limbs grow rusty upon beds of down.
Let no man say he has outlived delight,

Who has not climb'd the mountain's topmost height,

And found far up, when faint with toil and heat,

A little fountain oozing at his feet,

60

And laid him down upon the grass or stones,
At his full length, to rest his weary bones,

And drink long draughts at the delicious spring,
Better than wine at banquet of a king :
And when refresh'd, and grateful for the gift,
To fill his pocket-flask with prudent thrift,
Then bathe his hands and face, and start again
With keener pleasure, purchased by a pain.

65

Upwards, still upwards, lies the arduous way; But not still upward must our vision stray ;— 70 In climbing hills, as in our life, we find

True Wisdom stops at times, and looks behindStops to survey the progress she has made,

The sunny levels and the flowery shade,

Or difficulties pass'd. Thus, as we go,

75

We pause to view the loveliness below,―

Or note the landscape widening as we climb,
New at each turn, and variously sublime.

I never hear the tempest in the trees, Without mysterious throbs of sympathies; I never hear the billows on the shore, Without a secret impulse to adore;

80

Nor stand, as now upon the quiet hills,
Without a mild religious awe, that fills
My soul with raptures I cannot express,—
Raptures, not peace-a joy, not happiness.

85

C. MACKAY.1

HAPPINESS.

THE happiness of human kind
Consists in rectitude of mind;
A will subdued to reason's sway;
And passions practised to obey;
An open and a generous heart,
Refined from selfishness and art;

Patience, which mocks at fortune's power;
And wisdom, neither sad nor sour.

R. POLLOK.

THE YOUNG LAIRD OF OCHILTRIE.

OH listen, good people, to my tale,

5

Listen to what I tell to thee;
The king has taken a poor prisoner,

The wanton laird of Ochiltrie.

When news came to our goodly queen,

5

She sigh'd and said right mournfully"Oh what will come of Ladye Marg❜ret, Wha bears sic love to Ochiltrie ?"

Lady Marg❜ret tore her yellow hair

Whenas the queen told her the same:

IO

"I wish that I had ne'er been born,

Nor e'er had known Ochiltrie's name.

“Fie, na !" quoth the queen," that maunna be; Fie, na fie, na! that maunna be;

1

By permission of F. Warne and Co., Publishers.

K

15