The loud war trumpet woke the morn,
The quivering drum, the pealing horn,
From rank to rank the cry is borne,
Arouse for death or victory;
The orb of day in crimson dye,
Began to mount the morning sky,
Then what a scene for warrior's eye,
Hung on the bold declivity.

The serried bay'nets glittering stood,
Like icicles on hills of blood,
An aerial stream, a silver wood,

Reel'd in the flickering canopy.
Like waves of ocean rolling fast.
Or thunder cloud before the blast,
Massena's legions, stern and vast,
Rush'd to the dreadful revelry.

Whoever may have been the author, The Battle of Busaco is a song of considerable merit, and undoubtedly the production of a master in poetry. It is evidently done in the style of Mr. Campbell's Hohenlinden, and though the imitation must be acknowledged to be in some respects inferior to the model, yet still it possesses particular, nay even distinguished, excellence in its kind. By a variety of bold picturesque allusions, expressed by terms most appropriate and impressive, the poet introduces, describes, and concludes the interesting scenes of action, of contest, and of death. With a concern which it is utterly impossible to suppress, we hear the awfully comprehensive signal to engage, "Arouse for death or victory." In harsh grating sounds, which enter the very soul, we are informed of legions "Rushing to the dreadful revelry," while the poet in a manner highly significant, personifies "Red Ruin riding triumphantly." The whole, in fact, is a highly finished effusion, eminently calculated to commemorate the affair to which it refers, and by its impulse to rouse the undaunted and heroic to the boldest"Feats of chivalry."

The pause is o'er, the fatal shock,
A thousand thousand thunders woke,
The air grows sick, the mountains rock,
Red ruin rides triumphantly;

Light boil'd the war cloud to the sky,
In phantom towers and columns high,
But dark and dense their bases lie,
Prone on the battle's boundary.

The thistle wav'd her bonnet blue,
The harp her wildest war notes threw,
The red rose gain'd a fresher hue,
Busaco, in thy heraldry;

Hail, gallant brothers! woe befal
The foe that braves thy triple wall,
Thy sons, O wretched Portugal,

Rous'd at their feats of chivalry.

IX.

ELIZA.

How still is the night, and how death-like the gloom,
Which earth's lonely bounds now enshrouds,

No star sparkles bright, and retir'd is the moon
From her sentinel-watch in the clouds.

Where now are the flowers that embroider'd the vale,
And the hills which yon hamlet enclos'd,

And where are the wild woods that wav'd in the gale,
On whose tops the dark ravens repos'd?

For a moment they're hid, but soon shall the veil
Which o'ershadows them vanish away!

With the dawning of morn their return I shall hail,
And their beauty again I'll survey.

But where are the thoughts that once gladden'd my heart,
And the hopes I so fondly have cherish'd;

And where are the visions which blissful did start?
Alas! they for ever are perish'd.

Yes, for ever!-no more shall Eliza's bright eye,
The sun of my soul, shed its light;

Its heaven-born lustre has fled in a sigh,

And left my sad bosom in night.

X.

LINES,

In imitation of the Italian.

Love under friendship's vesture white,
Laughs, his little limbs concealing,—
And oft in sport and oft in spite,
Like Pity meets the dazzled sight,
Smiles through his tears revealing.
But now as Rage the god appears!
He frowns, and tempests shake his frame !
Frowning, or smiling, or in tears,

"Tis Love-and love is still the same.

XI.

THE WISH.

Mine be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill
With many a fall, shall linger near.

The swallow oft beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest-
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivy'd porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew,
And Lucy at her wheel shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village church among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were giv'n, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heav'n.

RII.

AN ITALIAN SONG.

Dear is my little native vale ;

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale

To every passing villager.

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange groves and myrtle bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,