Has made the battle's iron show'r
The hobby of the present hour,
And bade him seek, in steel and lead,
An opium for a rambling head.
A cannon ball will prove a pill
To lull what nothing else can still;
And I, that prophecy his doom,
Will give him all I can—a tomb,
And-o'er a pint of half and half,
Compose poor Arthur's epitaph :-
"Here, join'd in death, th' observer sees
“Plato—and Alcibiades ;-

"A mixture of the grave and funny,
"A famous dish of Salmagundi."

Allan M'Gregor! from afar
I see him 'midst the ranks of war,
That all around are rising fast
From slumbers that may be their last;
I know him by his Highland plaid,
Long borne in foray and in raid,

His scarf all splash'd with dust and gore,
His nodding plume and broad claymore;
I know him by that eagle eye,

Where foemen read their destiny;
I know him by that iron brow,

That frowns not, burns not, quails not now,
Though life and death are with the ray
That redly dawns upon to-day.

Woe to the wretch whose single might
Copes with dark Allan in the fight;
He knows not mercy-knows not fear;
The pibroch has to Allan's ear
A clearer and a sweeter note

Than mellow strains that blithely float
From lyre or lute, in courtly throng,
Where Beauty smiles upon the
song

Of artful wiles against his foe
Nothing he knows or cares to know ;

Far less he recks of polish'd arts,
The batteries in the siege of hearts.
And hence the minions of the ton,
While fair and foolish dames look on,
Laugh at old Allan's awkward bow,
His stern address, and haughty brow.
Laugh they?-when sounds the hollow drum,
And banded legions onward come,
And life is won by ready sword,

By strength to strike, and skill to ward,
Those tongues, so brave in woman's war,
Those cheeks unstain'd by scratch or scar,
Shall owe their safety in the fight
To hoary Allan's arm of might.

Close to the clansman's side is seen
Dame Fortune's soldier, James M'Lean.
I know him well-no novice he
In warfare's murderous theory;
Amidst the battle's various sound,
While bullets flew like hail around,
M'Lean was born; in scenes like this
He pass'd his earliest hours of bliss:
Cradled in war, the fearless child
Look'd on the scene of blood, and smil'd;
Toy'd with the sabre of the Blues,
Long ere he knew its hellish use;
His little fingers lov'd to feel
The bayonet's bright point of steel,
Or made his father's helmet ring
With beating up-" God save the King."
Those hours of youthful glee are fled;
The thin grey hairs are on his head ;
Of youth's hot current nought remains
Within the ancient warrior's veins.
Yet, when he hears the battle-cry,
His spirit beats as wild and high
As on the day that saw him wield
His virgin sword in battle-field;

The eve on which his comrades found him,
With England's colours wrapt around him,
His face turn'd upwards, and his hand
Still twin'd around his trusty brand,
As, spent with wounds, and weak with toil,
He lay upon the bloody soil.

E'en now, though swift advancing years
Might well decline this life of fears,
Though the deep scars upon his breast
Show claim to honourable rest,

He will not quit what time has made
His joy, his habit, and his trade.
He envies not the peasant's lot,
His cheerful hearth, and humble cot;
Encampments have to him become

As constant, and as dear a home.

Such are the hearts of steel, whom War
Binds in their cradle to his car,
And leaves them in their latter day,
With honour, medals, and half-pay,
Burthen'd with all the cares of life,
Repentance-asthma-and a wife.

And what am I who thus can choose
Such subject for so light a muse?
Who wake the smile, and weave the rhyme,
In such a scene, at such a time.

Mary! whose pure and holy kiss

Is still a cherish'd dream of bliss,
When last I saw thy bright blue eye,
And heard thy voice of melody,
And felt thy timid mild caress,
I was all hope-all joyousness!
We parted and the morrow's sun-
Oh God! my bliss was past and done;
The lover's hope, the husband's vow-
Where were they then ?--ah! where wert thou?

Mary! thou vision lov'd and wept,
Long years have pass'd since thou hast slept,

Removed from

gaze of mortal eye, The dreamless sleep of those that die. Long years!-yet has not pass'd away memory of that fatal day,

The

When all thy young and faded grace
Before me lay in Death's embrace.

A throb of madness and of pain

Shot through my heart, and through my brain;
I felt it then, I feel it now,

Though time is stamp'd upon my brow;
Though all my veins grow cold with age,
And o'er my memory's fading page
Oblivion draws her damning line,
And blots all images-save thine.

Thou left'st me—and I did become
An alien from my house and home;
A phantom in life's busy dream;
A bubble on misfortune's stream:
Condemn'd through varying scenes to rove,
With nought to hope-and nought to love;
No inward motive, that can give

Or fear to die, or wish to live.

Away, away! Death rides the breeze!
There is no time for thoughts like these;
Hark! from the foeman's distant camp
I hear their charger's sullen tramp;
On valiant Britons, to the fight!
On! for St. George, and England's right!
Green be the laurel-bright the meed,
Of those that shine in martial deed!
Short be the pang-swift pass the breath,
Of those that die a Soldier's death!

SIR,

T

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ETONIAN.

S

I SHOULD think that no one unless he is a misanthrope, or a methodist, which is little better, can pass through Eton without being amused at the various looks, sizes, and occupations of the motley group of which that Lilliputian world is composed. Methinks I hear one of them say, in all the dignity of offended pride, "Softly, Mr. not so Lilliputian; there are AE- six feet high; and I myself, though far from being one of the biggest, would easily chastise you for your impertinence." Boys still they all are, and boyish are their habits. I hope, however, I shall not be known as the author of these opinions, or the next time I visit Eton I shall meet with a sorry reception. Whether it is that my countenance is not very repulsive, my dress not very extraordinary, and my appearance on the whole not singular, I passed through the Quadrangle, (as it happened) particularly crowded, without being so much quizzed as I expected; for, after the alarming stories which I had heard of the practical jokes of Etonians, it required no small resolution to encounter the mirth of such a formidable body of humourists. Once, to be sure, I heard a whisper, remarking it as very odd that I should wear gaiters under my trowsers; and a second time, when I happened to turn round on a sudden, I surprised a circle of dashing young fellows laughing at my look behind, where I suppose the cut of my coat was not according to the newest fashion. Some of them I recognized as old acquaintances, having seen them the evening before parading on the Terrace of Windsor Castle. The approaching school hour did not appear at all to have changed or saddened their looks, for they were laughing, quizzing, and flitting about, exactly in the way which first attracted my attention on the Royal