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Salamanca! whose plains saw the confident host
Half swept from the earth in the pride of their boast!
Vittoria, whose trophies still blazon the wall,
In the gloom of the conqueror's desolate hall!
And that last fearful conflict convulsive, the throe
Of an empire expiring, where foeman and foe
Lay in lines as they fell, and while yet it had breath
Thy suburbs, Toulouse, saw its struggles in death!
Aye! and share in the sorrow, now foemen no more,
Ye so often who met him in battle before!

As warrior meets warrior with musket and brand,
He respected your laws and gave peace to your land :
When the Prussian, all raging with vengeance and hate,
Would have doom'd your fair city to Babylon's fate!
Would have sullied your glories, your trophies o'erthrown,
In humanity's cause he stood bravely alone;
And alone, when they call'd for your emperor's blood,
Indignant, their furious purpose withstood,

And nobly o'ermaster'd their chiefs to forego
The doom they had pass'd on his worthiest foe.

But, alas! when the tears of the nations are dry,
And the pageant that wound to his tomb hath gone by,
Shall the deeds that he did, and the laurels he won,
And the counsels he gave be remember'd by none,
With a grief more enduring, a pang more severe,
Than convulsed his fair Queen as she bent o'er his bier,
And felt, in her sorrow, the memories blend

Of the soldier! the statesman! the mentor! and friend!
And well may she treasure the memory deep

In her heart, of the warrior who sleeps the long sleep;
Looming far o'er the distance dire omens arise,
Of discord and danger to startle men's eyes;
Dark spirits abroad sound the tocsin of strife,
And with glory and vengeance all rumours are rife;
Where the demon of hate waves his fiery brand,
The horizon glares wild of a neighbouring land,
And replumed are the wings of the eagle that flew
In dismay from the carnage of red Waterloo!

But profane not his spirit by doubt! Not in vain
Shall that terrible day be fought over again

If summon'd to battle once more by the Gaul,
Ere the stern-hearted Saxon shall crouch to his thrall,
Alone, unappall'd, as he dared him before,

Will he roll back the war to his enemy's shore;
And his warriors shall emulate Wellington's fame,
And thunder "Væ victis !" in Wellington's name.
Christmas, 1852.

R. E. BOWLer.

LOCHINVAR.

O YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west!
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And, save his good broad-sword, he weapon had none;
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone!
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!

He stay❜d not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone-
He swam the Esk river where ford there was none-
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar !

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,
Among bridemen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all!
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword—
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word—
O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war?

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Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?”

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied: "Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide! "And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, "To tread but one measure, drink one cup of wine : "There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, "That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!"

The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup;

She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,-
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye.

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace !

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, But the bride-maidens whisper'd, ""Twere better by far

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To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!"

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

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"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan ;
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea,

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see!
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?

SCOTT.

MAN'S THREE GUESTS.

A KNOCKING at the castle-gate,
When the bloom was on the tree;
And the youthful master, all elate,
Himself came forth to see.

A jocund lady waited there,

Gay was her robe, of colours rare,

Her tresses bright to the zephyr stream'd,

And her car on its silver axle gleam'd,

Like the gorgeous barge of that queen of yore,
Whose silken sail and flashing oar

Sparkling Cydnus proudly bore.

The youth, enraptured at her smile,
And won by her enchanting wile
And flatteries vain,

Welcomed her in, with all her train,
Placing her in the chiefest seat,
While, as a vassal at her feet,

He knelt, and paid her homage sweet.
She deck'd his halls with garlands gay,
Bidding the sprightly viol play,
Till by her magic power

Day turn'd to night, and night to day,
For every fleeting hour

Bow'd to Pleasure as its queen ;

And so, that siren guest, of mirthful mien,

Linger'd till the vernal ray,

And summer's latest rose had sigh'd itself away.

A knocking at the gate!

And the lordling of the hall,

A strong and bearded man withal,
Held parley at the threshold-stone
In the pomp of his estate.

And then the warder's horn was blown,
The ponderous bolts drawn one by one,
And slowly in, with sandals torn,
Came a pilgrim, travel-worn.

A burden at his back he bare,

And coldly said, "My name is Care!"
Plodding and weary years he brought,
And a pillow worn with ceaseless thought;
And bade his votary ask of Fame,

Or wealth, or wild Ambition's claim,
Payment for the toil he taught.

But dark with dregs was the cup he quaff'd,
And 'mid his harvest, proud

The mocking tare look'd up and laugh'd,

Till his haughty heart was bow'd,

And wrinkles on his forehead hung, and o'er his path a cloud.

Again, a knocking at the gate,

At the wintry eventide,

And querulous was the voice that cried.

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Who cometh here so late?"

"Ho! rouse the sentinel from his sleep, Strict guard at every loop-hole keep!"

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And Man the towers!" he would have said,
But alas! his early friends were dead,

And his eagle glance was awed,
And a frost, that never thaw'd,

Had settled on his head.

But that thundering at the gate,
From morn till midnight late,
Knew no rest;

And a boding tone of fate,
Like an owlet's cry of hate,
Chill'd his breast.

Yet he raised the palsied hand,
And, eager, gave command,
To repel the threatening guest;
So the Esculapian band,

In their armour old and tried,
Were summon'd to his side;
And the watchful nurses came,
Whose lamp, like vestal flame,
Never died.

But the tottering bulwarks their trust betray'd,
And the old man groan'd as a breach was made;
Then through the chasm a skeleton foot

Forced its way,

And a fleshless hand to a shaft was put,

And he was clay.

SIGOURNEY.

MARCO BOZZARIS.

Ar midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour

When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power;

In dreams, thro' camp and court he bore

The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard,

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