THE WARRIOR'S FAREWELL.

I.

THE Warrior's soul is kindling now
With wildly-blending fires,

He fondly breathes each raptured vow

That faithful love inspires;

But not those whispered words alone
Arrest the Maiden's ear,

A prouder strain-a loftier tone,

Awakes the throb of fear!

II.

They hear the war-notes on the gale,
Before the tent they stand,

His form is clad in glittering mail,

The sword is in his hand;

Her scraf around his arm is twined,
For love's remembering spell.

Ah! would that kindred skill could bind

The links of life as well!

III.

The battle-steed is waiting nigh,
Nor brooks his lord's delay;

And eager troops are trampling by,
And wave their banners gay.
Nor boding dream, nor bitter care,
In that proud host are found,
While echoing through the startled air
The cheerful trumpets sound.

IV.

The Maid, with mingled pride and grief,
Faint hopes, and withering fears,
Still gazes on the gallant Chief

Through dim impassioned tears.
He sees but Victory's golden wreath,
And love's unfading flame,

Nor thinks how soon the form of Death

May cross the path of fame!

V.

"A last farewell-a last embrace,
And now for glory's plain !"
Those parting accents left a trace
Of phrensy on her brain.

And when the Warrior's helm was brought

To crown his forehead fair,

Alas! the shuddering Maiden thought

'Twas DEATH that placed it there!

D. L. R.

THE VOLUNTEER.

The clashing of my armour in my ears,
Sounds like a passing bell; my buckler puts me
In mind of a bier; this, my broadsword, a pickaxe
To dig my grave."

The Lover's Progress.

'Twas in that memorable year
France threaten'd to put off in
Flat-bottom'd boats, intending each

To be a British coffin,

To make sad widows of our wives

And every babe an orphan.

When coats were made of scarlet cloaks,

And heads were dredg'd with flour,-
I listed in the Tailors' Corps

Against the battle hour;

A perfect Volunteer,—for why?
I brought my "will and pow'r."

One dreary day-a day of dread,
Like Cato's-overcast,-

About the hour of six, (the morn

And I were breaking fast),—

There came a loud and sudden sound

That struck me all aghast!

A dismal sort of morning roll
That was not to be eaten ;
Although it was no skin of mine
But parchment that was beaten,
I felt tattooed through all my flesh
Like any Otaheitan.

My jaws with utter dread enclos'd
The morsel I was munching,

And terror lock'd them up so tight,

My very teeth went crunching

All through my bread and tongue at once, Like sandwich made at lunching.

My hand that held the teapot fast,
Stiffen'd, but yet unsteady,

Kept pouring, pouring, pouring o'er

The cup in one long eddy,

Till both my hose were mark'd with tea
As they were mark'd already.