III. How shall I woo her?-I will try Away! away! the chords are mute, The bond is rent in twain ;You cannot wake that silent lute, Nor clasp those links again : Love's toil I know is little cost, Love's perjury is light sin; But souls that lose what I have lost, What have they left to win? FLODDEN FIELD. BY D. M. MOIR, ESQ. 1. "T was on a sultry summer noon, The sky was blue—the breeze was stillAnd Nature with the robes of June Had clothed the slopes of Flodden Hill;As rode we slowly o'er the plain, 'Mid wayside flowers and sprouting grain; The leaves on every bough seemed sleeping, And wild bees murmured in their mirth So pleasantly, it seemed as earth A jubilee was keeping! II. And canst thou be, unto my soul I said, that dread Northumbrian field, Where war's terrific thunder-roll Above two banded kingdoms pealed ?— From out the forest of his spears, Ardent imagination hears The crash of Surrey's onward charging; While curtel-axe and broadsword gleam Opposed, a bright, wide, coming stream, Like Solway's tide enlarging. III. Hark to the turmoil and the shout, The broken lance and draggled plume! Borne to the earth, with deadly force, Comes down the horseman and his horse; Round boils the battle like an ocean; While stripling blithe and veteran stern, Pour forth their life-blood on the fern, Amid its fierce commotion! IV. Mown down like swaths of summer flowers, And thou, the vanguard onwards leading, For battle-field the festal board, Liest low amid the bleeding! V. Yes! here thy life-star knew decline, Though hope, that strove to be deceived, Shaped thy lone course to Palestine, And what it wished full oft believed:An unhewn pillar on the plain Marks out the spot where thou wast slain; There pondering as I stood, and gazing On its grey top, the linnet sang, And, o'er the slopes where conflict rang, The quiet sheep were grazing. VI. And were the nameless dead unsung, No! many a mother's melting lay Whose locks no more were seen to wave, Wept for the beauteous and the brave, Who came not on the morrow! THE RUINS OF TIME. BY BARRY CORNWALL. I. "TIME in his awful course rolls on for ever. (Washed like an atom down) goes man, the god! Weak, wise, or brave or strong,-all bend the same! II. "Now sit, and let us mark what ruins hoar Great Time hath left upon this terrene shore,— What pillars and vast blocks of brass and stone, With figures carved, and filled with speech unknown, |