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LONG, wild, and bloody was the day,
The morn had shot its purple ray
On Harold's helm of gold;

The noon had seen it red with gore,
At eve it lay on Hastings' shore,
In dust and slaughter rolled.

:

Night fell yet still the trumpet rang,
Still rose the axe and armour's clang,
Still twanged the British bow;
Still did their bands unbroken keep
The march by hill and forest deep,
Like lions, stern and slow.

Beneath the torch and cresset's flame,
Heavy and spent, the Norman came
From that scarce conquered field;

And came his haughty chivalry,
With weary limb, and drooping eye,
And shattered helm and shield.

The tents were pitched, the feast was spread, Was crowned the monarch's feverish head; And lovely o'er the throng,

As victor-boast and joyous roar

Sank down like waves upon the shore,
Was heard the minstrel's song.

Sweet stole the Jongleur's ancient strain,
"Of ladies' frowns, and lovers' pain,"
Till even the monarch smiled;
And every lord to some sweet name,
His day-star on the path to fame,
The golden beaker filled.

The Jongleur paused, he backward flung
The locks that o'er him darkly hung-
Then dashed his eager hand

Through the rich tumult of the wires,
Till rushed the sounds, like living fires,
Among the warrior band.

"Woe to the lands!" the minstrel sang,
"That hear the Norman rider's clang,
Their bloody doom is sealed;

With

eye of flame, and voice of fear, He comes, the breaker of the spear, The scorner of the shield!

"Where lies, proud Greek! thy crescent vane?
Its silver light is on the wane-

Where, Venice, is thy barge?

Illustrious harlot of the deep!
No longer shall thy banner sweep
The Adria's purple marge.

"Thou mother, queen of nations, Rome,
What arrow tore thy eagle's plume,
Now proudest, last of all?

Health to the king!—his wreath is won,
The Norman sits on England's throne,
The sovereign of the ball."

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

OH when the lips we loved are cold, and fixed in silent death, The tender tale that once they told parts not with parting breath; A word—a tone survives its hour-an angel's passing strain, Once heard when dreams from heaven had power, and never heard again!

From eyes that death hath closed, a gleam thrills softly o'er the heart!

That joins with life its blessed beam, till life itself depart!
Then from its last exhaling fires it purely parts above,
And with the mounting soul aspires to light it up to love!

A FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.

BY MISS M. J. JEWSBURY.

Nor in envy, ire, or grief,
Bid I now the Muse farewell;
"Tis no childish fancy brief,
Lured away by newer spell;
As of earthly good the chief,

I have sought her long and well.

Not in anger;-inward joys

Have been mine, and meed of praise,— Payment vast for idle toys,

Fleeting, unsubstantial lays; Sandy columns wind destroys, And that wind again can raise.

No, nor yet in grief we part,-
Never unto bard like me,
Gave the Muse a broken heart;
'Tis to nobler votaries, she
Doth that awful gift impart,—
Pledge of immortality!

Not in envy;-though around,
Like the stars, a radiant throng,
In their several orbits found,

I behold the sons of song,-
Every brow with laurel bound,
And a few as giants strong.

Not in envy ;-though I know

Neither wreath nor radiance mine;

I will yet pay homage low,

Pilgrim-like, at every shrine;

Seek where buds and blossoms grow,
And for others garlands twine.

Never hath my Muse bereaved me,
Song hath lightened hours of pain;
Never Poet yet deceived me,

Truer friend I scarce could gain;
Ne'er among the things that grieved me,
Ranked the minstrel lute and strain.

Yet I bid the art adieu,

It may be, adieu for ever;

I abjure the Syren too,

Vain, I own, my best endeavour;
Weak to grasp, though keen to view,
Climbing alway-rising never.

Though I smite the rock of song,
At my stroke no stream will flow,-
At my spell no spirits strong

Bidden come, or mastered go;
Nor the world of passion throng
With its wild waves to and fro.

Farewell Muse!-vouchsafing never
But dim glance and veiled brow;
Farewell Lute!-a rude toy ever,

Broken, stringless, soon art thou;
Farewell Song!-thy last notes quiver,-
Muse,-Lute,-Music,-farewell now!

Literary Souvenir.

FIELD FLOWERS.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.

YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you 't is true, Yet, wildings of nature, I doat upon you,

For

ye waft me to summers of old,

When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams

Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And of broken blades breathing their balm;

While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note, Made music that sweetened the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune
Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June;
Of old ruinous castles

ye

tell:

I thought it delightful your beauties to find

When the magic of nature first breathed on my mind, And your blossoms were part of her spell.

Even now what affections the violet awakes;
What loved little islands, twice seen in the lakes,

Can the wild water-lily restore.

What landscape I read in the primrose's looks;
What pictures of pebbles and minnowy brooks,
In the vetches that tangle the shore.

Earth's cultureless buds! to my heart ye were dear Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear,

Had scathed my existence's bloom;

Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age,

And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

New Monthly Magazine.

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