The loathsome water to his fevered lips;
Praying that he might be so blest-to die!
-Footsteps approached; and with no strength to
flee,

He drew the covering closer on his lip,

Crying, "Unclean! Unclean!" and, in the folds
Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face,
He fell upon the earth till they should pass.
Nearer the Stranger came, and, bending o'er
The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name,
"Helon!"-The voice was like the master-tone
Of a rich instrument,-most strangely sweet;
And the dull pulses of disease awoke,
And, for a moment, beat beneath the hot
And leprous scales with a restoring thrill !—
Helon, arise!"—and he forgot his curse,
And rose and stood before Him.

Love and awe

Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye,
As he beheld the Stranger. He was not
In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow
The symbol of a princely lineage wore;
No followers at his back,-nor in his hand
Buckler, or sword, or spear;—yet, if he smiled,
A kingly condescension graced his lips,
A lion would have crouched-to in his lair.
His garb was simple, and his sandals worn:
His stature modelled with a perfect grace;
His countenance the impress of a God,
Touched with the opening innocence of a child;
His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky
In the serenest noon; his hair unshorn
Fell to his shoulders; and his curling beard
The fulness of perfected manhood bore.
-He looked on Helon earnestly a while,
As if his heart were moved; and, stooping down,
He took a little water in his hand,

And laid it on his brow, and said, "Be clean!"
And lo! the scales fell from him; and his blood,
Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins;

And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow
The dewy softness of an infant's stole:

His leprosy was cleansed; and he fell down
Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshipped him.

XXXII.-THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.

(BYRON.)

STOP!-for thy tread is on an Empire's dust!
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!—
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?
Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so,
As the ground was before, thus let it be ;-
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!
And is this all the world has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields! King-making victory?

There was a sound of revelry by night,1
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell.-

But hush!-hark! A deep sound strikes like a rising knell !

Did ye not hear it? No: 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;

On with the dance !-let joy be unconfined!

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-
But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is—it is-the cannon's opening roar !

1 A ball was given in Brussels the night before the battle of Quatre Bras.

Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain: he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well,
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell !1
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago,
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated: Who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war:
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum,
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star:

While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb,

Or whispering, with white lips-"The foe! they come! they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose!
(The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard-and heard too have her Saxon foes!)
-How, in the noon of night, that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring, which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years:

And Evan's, Donald's fame, rings in each clansman's ears!

1 He fell at Quatre Bras.

2 Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant, Donald.

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves—
Over the unreturning brave;—alas,

Ere evening, to be trodden like the grass

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow

In its next verdure; when this fiery mass

Of living valour, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life;

Last

eve,

in Beauty's circle proudly gay;

The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,-
The morn the marshalling in arms, the day,
Battle's magnificently stern array.

The thunder-clouds close o'er it: which when rent,
The earth is covered thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover-heaped and pent;
Rider and horse,-friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!

XXXIII.—THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

(SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.R.I.A.)

COME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged; 'tis at a white heat now;

The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's brow

The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound; And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round,

All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare; Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below,

And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe;

It rises, roars, rends all outright,—O Vulcan, what a glow! "Tis blinding white, tis blasting bright, the high sun shines not so!

The high sun sees not on the earth such fiery, fearful show, The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe;

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow

Sinks on the anvil-all about the faces fiery grow—

66

Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out-leap out:" bang, bang, the sledges go :

Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low; A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow; The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders

strow

The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains

flow;

And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant "Ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!
Let's forge a goodly Anchor, a bower thick and broad;
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode,
And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road;
The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean poured
From stem to stern, sea after sea, the mainmast by the
board;

The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains;

But courage still, brave mariners, the bower still remains; And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch skyhigh,

Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing— here am I!"

Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time; Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime!

But, while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let the burden be, The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal craftsmen we;