LI. THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND.
CAMPBELL.

H sacred Truth thy triumph ceased awhile, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandours and her fierce hussars; Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum and twanged her trumpet-horn; Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,

Presaging wrath to Poland-and to man!

Warsaw's last champion from her heights surveyed,
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid-

"O heaven!" he cried, "my bleeding country save!
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet though destruction sweep these lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! our COUNTRY yet remains!
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high-
And swear, for her to live! with her to die!"
He said and on the rampart heights arrayed
His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed!
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm!
Low, murmuring sounds along their banners fly-
REVENGE OF DEATH! the watchword and reply;
Then pealed the notes omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm!
In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few
From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew !
Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of time,
Sarmatia fell—unwept-without a crime!
Found not a generous friend-a pitying foe—
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!

Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear-
Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career!
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shrieked-as KOSCIUSKO fell!

The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there;
Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air-
On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow,
His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below.
The storm prevails! the rampart yields away--
Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay !
Hark! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall,
A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call!
Earth shook! red meteors flashed along the sky!
And conscious nature shuddered at the cry!
Departed spirits of the MIGHTY DEAD!

Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled!

Friends of the world! restore your swords to man; Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van!

Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone,

And make her arm puissant as your own!

Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return

The PATRIOT TELL-the BRUCE OF BANNOCKBURN!

LII. THE ENGINEER'S MURDER.

HENRY MORFORD.

YES

ES, I once committed a murder, outside the realms of law,

That I s'pose the body of people would not heed the worth of a straw; But I think I should sleep the sounder, sometimes, when the night winds wail,

If I never remembered "murder," or never told over the tale.

No matter the road I was running,-'twas in one of the Middle States;

So many years since, that I wonder why the sorrow never abates.

I was young, and hasty, and savage, as youth is apt to be,

And my hand,—well, my hand, you will fancy was a trifle too ready and free.

I was in my caboose just at evening, say 'tween Holden and Fiddler's Run,
Making time, to reach Wayman's Siding for the up-train, at five twenty-one;
I had had a hot box at Grossman's, and that put me four minutes behind;
So I felt like,—the word is ugly, but the truth!—like "going it blind."

Round a curve, and running,—say forty, or it may have been fifty, who knows,—
And there on the track before me, a black fiend, at full scream, arose !—
A dog, that sat down in the middle, between the two lines of rail,
And howled, like a fiend incarnate, with a mixture of bark, yell, and wail.

Did I stop? Not much! I just opened the throttle-valve, by a mite,
And over that dog she went flying, and over something else,—white !
I stopped her then with a shudder, and ran back; in a mangled heap
Lay the dog, and what had been lately a baby-girl laying asleep!

Have I never got over it? No, sir! and I never shall till I die!
Why didn't I heed the warning? it was only a black dog's cry.

I may have done many more murders, and it is likely I have on the whole;
But there's none, when the night winds are howling, that lay such a weight on my
soul !

And what is the worst of my sorrow,—don't make the one grand mistake!
I should't grieve twice, I've a fancy, for the poor dead baby's sake!

But the dog that was doing his duty so nobly,-I grieve for him;
And I never tell over the story but I find my old eyes grow dim.

LIII.-VISION OF BELSHAZZAR.

BYRON.

lamps shone o'er that high festival.

THE king was on his throne, the Satraps thronged the hall; a thousand bright A thousand cups of gold, in Judah deemed divine-Jehovah's vessels hold the godless Heathen's wine! In that same hour and hall, the fingers of a hand came forth against the wall, and wrote as if on sand: the fingers of a man ;-a solitary hand along the letters ran, and traced them like a wand. The monarch saw, and shook, and bade no more rejoice; all bloodless waxed his look, and tremulous his voice. "Let the men of lore appear,

the wisest of the earth; and expound the words of fear, which mar our royal mirth." Chaldæa's seers are good, but here they have no skill; and the unknown letters stood untold and awful still. And Babel's men of age are wise and deep in lore; but now they were not sage, they saw-but knew no more. A Captive in the land, a stranger and a youth, he heard the king's command, he saw that

writing's truth.

The lamps around were bright, the prophecy in view; he read it on that night,—the morrow proved it true. "Belshazzar's grave is made--his kingdom passed away-he, in the balance weighed, is light and worthless clay. The shroud, his robe of state-his canopy, the stone; the Mede is at his gate—the Persian on his throne !"

LOOKED upon his brow ;-no sign I saw him once before; he rode

Of guilt or fear was there;

He stood as proud by that death-shrine,

As even o'er despair

He had a power; in his eye

There was a quenchless energy

A spirit that could dare

Upon a coal-black steed,

And tens of thousands thronged the road,
And bade their warrior speed.

His helm, his breastplate, were of gold,
And graved with many a dent, that told
Of many a soldier's deed;

The deadliest form that death could take, The sun shone on his sparkling mail,

And dare it for the daring's sake.

He stood, the fetters on his hand

He raised them haughtily;

And danced his snow-plume in the gale.

But now he stood, chained and alone;
The headsman by his side;

And had that grasp been on the brand, The plume, the helm, the charger gone ;

It could not wave on high

With freer pride than it waved now :
Around he looked, with changeless brow,
On many a torture nigh—

The sword, that had defied
The mightiest, lay broken near ;-
And yet no sign or sound of fear
Came from that lip of pride:

The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, And never king or conqueror's brow And, worst of all, his own red steel!

Wore higher look than his did now.

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke

With an uncovered eye;

A wild shout from the numbers broke,
That thronged to see him die.

It was a people's loud acclaim,
The voice of anger and of shame—
A nation's funeral cry;

Rome's wail above her only son,
Her Patriot-and her latest one!

LV. THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

H. KIRKE WHITE.

WHEN marshalled on the nightly plain,

The glittering host bestud the sky,

One star alone of all the train,

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.

Hark! hark!-to God the chorus breaks,
From every host, from every gem;

But one alone the Saviour speaks-
It is the Star of Bethlehem !

Once on the raging seas I rode ;

The storm was loud-the night was dark—
The ocean yawned- and rudely blowed

The wind, that tossed my foundering bark.

Deep horrors then my vitals froze-
Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem-
When suddenly a star arose !—

It was the Star of Bethlehem !

It was my guide-my light-my all!
It bade my dark forebodings cease;
And through the storm, and danger's thrall,
It led me to the port of peace.

Now, safely moored, my perils o'er,
I'll sing, first in night's diadem,

For ever, and for evermore,

The Star-the Star of Bethlehem !

LVI. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
CAMPBELL.

UR bugles sang truce--for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ;
And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpowered-
The weary to sleep, and the wounded-to die!

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice, ere the morning, I dreamt it again.

Methought, from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track;
'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back!

I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ;

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup; and fondly I swore
From my bome and my weeping friends never to part ;
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart :

"Stay! stay with us!-rest! thou art weary and worn!"
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay——

But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

LVII. BRUCE TO HIS ARMY.

BURNS.

COTS! wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed, or to glorious victory!

Now's the day and now's the hour! See the front of battle lour!

See, approach proud Edward's power-Edward!-chains and slavery!

Wha will be a traitor knave?

Wha can fill a coward's grave?

Wha sae base as be-a slave? Traitor! coward! turn and flee! Wha, for Scotland's king and law, freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or Freeman fa'? Caledonian !-on wi me!

By oppression's woes and pains! by your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, but they shall--they shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe!

Liberty's in every blow!

Forward!-let us do or die!

LVIII.-ELIZA.

DARWIN.

OW stood Eliza on the wood-crowned height,
O'er Minden's plain, spectatress of the fight;

Sought with bold eye, amid the bloody strife,
Her dearer self, the partner of her life;
From hill to hill the rushing host pursued,
And viewed his banner, or believed she viewed.
Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread
Fast by his hand one lisping boy she led ;

And one fair girl amid the loud alarm
Slept on her kerchief, cradled by her arm ;
While round her brow bright beams of honor dart,
And love's warm eddies circle in her heart.
Near and more near the intrepid beauty pressed,
Saw through the driving smoke, his dancing crest ;
Heard the exulting shout, "They run! they run!'"
"O joy!" she cried, "he's safe! the battle's won!'"
A ball now hisses through the airy tides,
(Some Fury wings it, and some Demon guides
Parts the fine locks her graceful head that deck,
Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck;
The red stream issuing from her azure veins,

Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains.

66

'Ah, me!" she cried, and, sinking on the ground,

Kissed her dear babes, regardless of the wound;

66

Oh, cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn!

Wait, gushing life, oh, wait my love's return;

Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far!

The angel, Pity, shuns the walds of war !

Oh, spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age!
On me, on me," she cried, "exhaust your rage!"
Then, with weak arms, her weeping babes caressed,
And, sighing, hid them in her blood-stained vest.

From tent to tent the impatient Warrior flies,