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Yet, when he hears the battle-cry,
Such are the hearts of steel, whom war Binds in their cradle to his car, And leaves them in their latter day, With honor, medals, and balf-pay, Burthened with all the cares of life, Repentance—asthma-and a wife.
And what am I, who thus can choose Suvh subject for so light a muse?
Who wake the smile, and weave the rhyme
Mary! thou vision loved and wept, Long years have passed since thou hast slept, Removed from gaze of mortal eye, The dreamless sleep of those that die; Long years! yet has not passed away The memory of that fatal day 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 stamped 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. VOL. II.—2
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; Condemned 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 chargers' 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!
THE COUNTY BALL.
"Busy people, great and small,
Awkward dancers, short and tall,
This is a night of pleasure! Care,
and “ Hall,”
Over that guarded barrier flies
The Moon hath risen! Still and pale Thou movest in thy silver veil, Queen of the night! the filmy shroud Of many a mild, transparent cloud Hides, yet adorns thee ;-meet disguise To shield thy blush from mortal eyes. Full many a maid hath lov'd to gaze Upon thy melancholy rays; And many a fond, despairing youth Hath breath’d to thee his tale of truth; And many a luckless rhyming wight Hath look'd upon thy tender light, And spilt his precious ink upon it, In Ode, or Elegy, or Sonnet. Alas! at this inspiring hour I feel not, I, thy boasted power! Nor seek to gain thine approbation By vow, or prayer, or invocation ; I ask not what the vapors are, That veil thee like a white cymar; Nor do I care a single straw