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And the raven had flapped at her window-board,

To tell of her warrior's doom ! “Now sing you the death-song, and loudly pray

For the soul of my knight so dear,
And call me a widow this wretched day,

Since the warning of God is here!
For night-mare rides on my strangled sleep;

The lord of my bosom is doomed to die;
His valorous heart they have wounded deep;
And the blood-red tears shall his country weep

For Wallace of Elderslie !".
Yet knew not his country that ominous hour,

Ere the loud matin-bell was rung,
That a trumpet of death on an English tower

Had the dirge of her champion sung!
When his dungeon-light looked dim and red

On the high-born blood of a martyr slain ;
No anthem was sung at his holy death-bed,
No weeping there was when his bosom bled,

And his heart was rent in twain.
Oh! it was not thus when his oaken spear

Was true to that knight forlorn,
And hosts of a thousand were scattered, like deer

At the blast of the hunter's horn;
When he strode on the wreck of each well-fought field,

With the yellow-haired chiefs of his native land; For his lance was not shivered on helmet or shield, And the sword that seemed fit for archangel to wield

Was light in his terrible hand !
Yet bleeding and bound, though her Wallace wight

For his long-loved country die,
The bugle ne'er sung to a braver knight

Than Wallace of Elderslie.
But the day of his glory shall never depart,-

His head unentombed shall with glory be balmed, -
From his blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start;-
Though the raven has fed on his mouldering heart,
A nobler was never embalmed!



Now had the autumn day gone by,

And evening's yellow shade
Had wrapped the mountains and the hills,

And lengthened o'er the glade.
The honey-bee had sought her hive,

The bird her sheltered nest,
And in the hoilow valley's gloom

Both wind and wave had rest. And to a cotter's hut that eve

There came an Indian chief,
And in his frame was weariness,

And in his face was grief.
The feather o'er his head that danced

Was weather-soiled and rent;
And broken were his bow and spear,

And all his arrows spent.
And meek and humble was his speech;

He knew the white man's hand
Was turned against those wanted tribes,

Long scourged from the land. He prayed but for a simple draught

Of water from the well,
And a post more of the food

That from his table fell
He said that his old frame hard wilei

A wide and whary way,
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Went out into the wilderness,

The wolf and bear to kill;
To scatter the red deer, and slay

The panther in his lair,
And chase the rapid moose that ranged

The sunless forests there.
And soon his hounds lay dead with toil,

The deer were fierce and fleet,
And the prairie tigers kept aloof

When they heard his hostile feet:
No bread was in that desert place,

Nor crystal rivulet,
To slake the torment of his thirst,

Or his hot brow to wet.
He feared--he feared to die-yet knew

That nought on earth could save;
For none might catch his parting breath,

And lay him in his grave.
But, lo! while life's dim taper still

Burned feebly in his breast,
A ministering angel came--

His hated Indian guest !
He shared his wheaten loaf with him,

His cup of water shared,
And bore the sick man unto those

For whom his heart most cared.
“I cursed thee not,” the Indian said,

“When thou wast stern to me, And I have had my vengeance now ;White man! farewell to thee!”.



At Mantua long had lain in chains
The gallant Hofer bound;

But now his day of doom was come---
At morn the deep roll of the drum

Resounded o'er the soldiered plains,

O Heaven! with what a deed of dole The hundred thousand wrongs were crowned

Of trodden-down Tyrol !

With iron-fettered arms and hands
The hero moved along.

His heart was calm, his eye was clear

Death was for traitor slaves to fear!
He oft amid his mountain bands,

Where Inn's dark wintry waters roll,
Had faced it with his battle-song,

The Sandwirth of Tyrol.

Anon he passed the fortress wall,
And heard the wail that broke

From many a brother thrall within.

“ Farewell!” he cried. “Soon may you win Your liberty! God shield you all !

Lament not me! I see my goal.
Lament the land that wears the yoke-

Your land and mine, Tyrol !”

So through the files of musketeers
Undauntedly he passed,

And stood within the hollow square.

Well might he glance around him there,
And proudly think on by-gone years!

Amid such serfs his bannerol,
Thank God! had never braved the blast

On thy green hills, Tyrol !

They bade him kneel; but he with all
A patriot's truth replied :

“I kneel alone to God on high

As thus I stand so dare I die;
As oft I fought so let me fall!

Farewell”-his breast a moment swoll
With agony he stroye to hide-

“My Kaiser and Tyrol !"

No more emotion he betrayed.
Again he bade farewell

To Francis and the faithful men

Who girt his throne. His hands were then
Unbound for prayer, and thus he prayed :-

“God of the Free, receive my soul!
And you, slaves, Fire !” So bravely fell
Thy foremost man, Tyrol !

Dublin University Magazine.

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My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,
With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and

fiery eye;
Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed, -
I may not mount on thee again,—thou’rt sold, my Arab

steed! Fret not with that impatient hoof-snuff not the breezy

wind; The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind: The stranger hath thy bridle rein—thy master hath his

gold ; Fleet limbed and beautiful, farewell ! thou’rt sold, my steed

—thou’rt sold !

Farewell! those free untired limbs full many a mile must

roam, To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's

Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bread

prepare ;
The silky mane I braided once must be another's care !
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee
Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were

wont to be:
Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home


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