ON THE PROSPECT OP INVASION.

O For the death of those
Who for their country die,—
Sink on her bosom to repose,
And triumph where they lie!

How beautiful in death
The Warrior's corse appears,
Embalm'd by fond Affection's breath,
And bathed in Woman's tears!

Their loveliest native earth
Enshrines the fallen brave;
In the dear land that gave them birth
They find their tranquil grave.

But the wild waves shall sweep
Britannia's foes away,
And the blue monsters of the deep
Be surfeited with prey !—

Montgomery's Poems.

No !—they have 'scaped the waves,
'Scaped the sea-monsters' maws;
They come ! but oh shall Gallic slaves
Give English freeman laws?

By Alfred's Spirit, No!
—Bing, ring the loud alarms;
Ye drums awake, ye clarions blow,
Ye heralds, shout " To arms!"

To arms our heroes fly;
And, leading on their lines,
The British banner in the sky,
The star of conquest shines.

The lowering battle forms

Its terrible array;

Like clashing clouds in mountain-storms,

That thunder on their way.

The rushing armies meet;
And while they pour their breath,
The strong earth shudders at their feet,
The day grows dim with death.

Ghosts of the mighty dead!
Your children's hearts inspire;
And while they on your ashes tread,
Rekindle all your fire.

The dead to life return;

Our fathers' spirits rise!—

My brethren! in your breasts they burt,

They sparkle in your eyes.

Now launch upon the foe
The lightning of your rage!
Strike, strike the assailing giants lov,
The Titans of the age!

They yield,—they break,—they fly;
The victory is won:

Pursue !—they faint—they fall,—they die:
O stay !—the work is done.

Spirit of Vengeance! rest:

Sweet Mercy cries, " Forbear!"

She clasps the vanquish'd to her breast;

Thou wilt not pierce them there?

—Thus vanish Britain's foes
From her consuming eye;
But rich be the reward of those
Who conquer—those who die!

O'ershadowing laurels deck

The living hero's brows:

But lovelier wreaths entwine his neck,—

His children and his spouse!

Exulting o'er his lot,

The dangers he has braved;

He clasps the dear ones, hails the cot,

Which his own valour saved.

Daughters of Albion! weep;

On this triumphant plain,

Your fathers, husbands, brethren sleep,

For you and freedom slain.

O gently close the eye
That loved to look on you;
O seal the lip whose earliest sigh,
Whose latest breath was true:

THE VIGIL OP ST MARK.

Returning from their evening walk,

On yonder ancient stile,
In sweet, romantic, tender talk,

Two lovers paused awhile:

Edmund, the monarch of the dale,

All-conscious of his powers;
Ella, the lily of the vale,

The rose of Auburn's bowers!

In airy Love's delightful bands

He held her heart in vain;
The nymph denied her willing hands

To Hymen's awful chain.

"Ah! why," said he, " our bliss delay!

Mine Ella! why so cold?
Those who but love from day to day,

From day to day grow old.

"The bounding arrow cleaves the sky,

Nor leaves a trace behind;
And single lives like arrows fly,—

They vanish through the wind.

"In wedlock's sweet endearing lot

Let us improve the scene,
That some may be, when we are not,

To tell—that we have been."

"'Tis now," replied the village belle,
Saint Mark's mysterious eve;

And all that old traditions tell
I tremblingly believe:

"How, when the midnight signal tolls,

Along the churchyard green,
A mournful train of sentenced souls

In winding-sheets are seen!

"The ghosts of all whom Death shall doom

Within the coming year,
In pale procession walk the gloom,

Amid the silence drear!

"If Edmund, bold in conscious might,

By love severely tried,
Can brave the terrors of to-night,

Ella will be his bride."

She spake,—and, like the nimble fawn,
From Edmund's presence fled:

He sought across the rural lawn,
The dwelling of the dead !—

That silent, solemn, simple spot,
The mouldering realm of peace,

Where human passions are forgot!
Where human follies eease!