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Then bugle's note and cannon's roar

The death-like silence broke,

And with one start, and with one cry,

The royal city woke.

At once on all her stately gates
Arose the answering fires;
At once the wild alarum clash'd

From all her reeling spires;
From all the batteries of the Tower,

Peal'd loud the voice of fear;

And all the thousand masts of Thames

Sent back a louder cheer;
And from the farthest wards was heard
The rush of hurrying feet,

And the broad streams of flags and pikes
Dash'd down each roaring street;
And broader still became the blaze,
And louder still the din,

As fast from every village round

The horse came spurring in:

And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath, The warlike errand went,

And roused in many an ancient hall,

The gallant 'squires of Kent.
Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills,
Flew those bright couriers forth;

High on bleak Hempstead's swarthy moor,
They started for the north;
And on, and on, without a pause,
Untired they bounded still;

All night from tower to tower they sprang-
They sprang from hill to hill,

Till the proud Peak unfurl'd the flag
O'er Darwin's rocky dales-
Till like volcanoes flared to heaven,
The stormy hills of Wales—

Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze
On Malvern's lonely height,
Till stream'd in crimson on the wind
The Wrekin's crest of light-

Till broad and fierce the star came forth
On Ely's stately fane,

And tower and hamlet rose in arms
O'er all the boundless plain-

Till Belvoir's lordly terraces
The sign to Lincoln sent,
And Lincoln sped the message on,

O'er the wide vale of Trent

Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burn'd
On Gaunt's embattled pile,
And the red glare on Skiddaw roused
The burghers of Carlisle !


OH! weep for Moncontour.

Oh! weep for the hour

When the children of darkness
And evil had power;
When the horsemen of Valois
Triumphantly trod

On the bosoms that bled

For their rights and their God. Oh! weep for Moncontour. Oh weep for the slain Who for faith and for freedom Lay slaughter'd in vain. Oh! weep for the living, Who linger to bear The renegade's shame,

Or the exile's despair.

One look, one last look,

To the cots and the towers, To the rows of our vines,

And the beds of our flowers, To the church where the bones Of our fathers decay'd, Where we fondly had deem'd

That our own should be laid. Alas! we must leave thee,

Dear desolate home,
To the spearmen of Uri,

The shavelings of Rome,
To the serpent of Florence,
The vulture of Spain,
To the pride of Anjou,

And the guile of Lorraine.
Farewell to thy fountain,
Farewell to thy shades,
To the song of thy youths,

And the dance of thy maids.
To the breath of thy garden,
The hum of thy bees,
And the long waving line
Of the blue Pyrenees.
Farewell, and for ever.
The priest and the slave
May rule in the halls

Of the free and the brave.
Our hearths we abandon ;-

Our lands we resign; But, Father, we kneel

To no altar but thine.


MR. MOIR was born about the beginning of the present century. He is a physician, and resides at Musselburgh, near Edinburgh. Under the signature of DELTA, he has been for many years one of the principal poetical contributors to Blackwood's Magazine; and he has published, besides one or two volumes of poems, Outlines of the Ancient History of

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Scarce half-resign'd we look'd, yet thought how "Twould be again in after months to meet. And months have pass'd: now the bright moon is shining

O'er the gray mountains and the stilly sea, As, by the streamlet's willowy bend reclining, I pause remembering thee,

Who to the moonlight lent a softer charm

As through these wilds we wandered arm in arm.
Yes! as we roam'd the sylvan earth seem'd glowing
With many a beauty unremark'd before:
The soul was like a deep urn overflowing

With thoughts, a treasured store;
The very flowers seem'd born but to exhale,
As breath'd the West, their fragrance to the gale.
Methinks I see thee yet-thy form of lightness,

An angel phantom gliding through the trees, Thine alabaster brow, thy cheek of brightness, Thy tresses in the breeze

Floating their auburn, and thine eyes that made, So rich their blue, heaven's azure like a shade.

Methinks even yet I feel thy timid fingers,

With their bland pressure thrilling bliss to mine; Methinks yet on my cheek thy breathing lingers As, fondly leant to thine,

I told how life all pleasureless would be,
Green palm-tree of earth's desert! wanting thee.
Not yet, not yet had disappointment shrouded

Youth's summer calm with storms of wintry strife; The star of Hope shone o'er our path unclouded, And Fancy colour'd life

With those elysian rainbow-hues, which Truth Melts with his rod, when disenchanting youth. Where art thou now? I look around, but see not The features and the form that haunt my dreams! Where art thou now? I listen, but for me, not The deep rich music streams

Medicine, The Autobiography of Mansie Waugh, A Memoir of John Galt, and other works in prose. In his poems he alludes to frequent domestic misfortunes. Casa's Dirge, Wee Willie, and other pieces, breathe a pure and simple pathos, and his writings, generally, are characterized by much delicacy and grace.

Of that entrancing voice, which could bestow
A zest to pleasure, and a balm to wo :-

I miss thy smile, when morn's first light is bursting
Through the green branches of the casement tree;
To list thy voice my lonely ear is thirsting,
Beside the moonlit sea:

Vain are my longings, my repinings vain;
Sleep only gives thee to my arms again.

Yet should it cheer me, that nor wo hath shatter'd
The ties that link our hearts, nor Hate, nor Wrath,
And soon the day may dawn, when shall be scatter'd
All shadows from our path;

And visions be fulfill'd, by Hope adored,
In thee, the long-lost, to mine arms restored.
Ah! could I see thee!-see thee, were it only
But for a moment looking bliss to me!
Ah! could I hear thee !-desolate and lonely
Is life deprived of thee:

I start from out my revery, to know
That hills between us rise, and rivers flow!

Let Fortune change-be fickle Fate preparing
To shower her arrows, or to shed her balm,
All that I ask for, pray for, is the sharing
With thee life's storm or calm;

For, ah! with others' wealth and mirth would be
Less sweet by far than sorrow shared with thee!
Yes! vainly, foolishly, the vulgar reckon

That happiness resides in outward shows:
Contentment from the lowliest cot may beckon
True Love to sweet repose:

For genuine bliss can ne'er be far apart,
When soul meets soul, and heart responds to heart.
Farewell! let tyrannous Time roll on, estranging
The eyes and heart from each familiar spot:
Be fickle friendships with the seasons changing,
So that thou changest not!

I would not that the love which owes its birth
To heaven, should perish, like the things of earth!
Adieu! as falls the flooding moonlight round me,

Fall Heaven's best joys on thy beloved head! May cares that harass, and may griefs that wound me, Flee from thy path and bed!

Be every thought that stirs and hour that flies,
Sweet as thy smile, and radiant as thine eyes!


FARE-THEE-WELL, our last and fairest,
Dear wee Willie, fare-thee-well!
He, who lent thee, hath recall'd thee

Back with him and his to dwell.
Fifteen moons their silver lustre

Only o'er thy brow had shed, When thy spirit join'd the seraphs, And thy dust the dead.

Like a sunbeam, through our dwelling Shone thy presence bright and calm! Thou didst add a zest of pleasure;

To our sorrows thou wert balm ;Brighter beam'd thine eyes than summer; And thy first attempt at speech Thrill'd our heart-strings with a rapture Music ne'er could reach.

As we gazed upon thee sleeping,

With thy fine fair locks outspread, Thou didst seem a little angel,

Who from heaven to earth had stray'd; And, entranced, we watch'd the vision, Half in hope and half affright, Lest what we deem'd ours, and earthly, Should dissolve in light.

Snows o'ermantled hill and valley,

Sullen clouds begrim'd the sky,
When the first, drear doubt oppress'd us,
That our child was doom'd to die!
Through each long night-watch, the taper
Show'd the hectic of thy cheek;
And each anxious dawn beheld thee
More worn out, and weak.
"Twas even then Destruction's angel
Shook his pinions o'er our path,
Seized the rosiest of our household,
And struck Charlie down in death-
Fearful, awful, Desolation

On our lintel set his sign;
And we turn'd from his sad death-bed

Willie, round to thine!

As the beams of Spring's first morning
Through the silent chamber play'd,
Lifeless, in mine arms I raised thee,

And in thy small coffin laid;
Ere the day-star with the darkness

Nine times had triumphant striven, In one grave had met your ashes, And your souls in Heaven!

Five were ye, the beauteous blossoms

Of our hopes, and hearts, and hearth; Two asleep lie buried under

Three for us yet gladden earth:
Thee, our hyacinth, gay Charlie,
Willie, thee our snow-drop pure,
Back to us shall second spring-time
Never more allure!

Yet while thinking, oh! our lost ones!
Of how dear ye were to us,

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Blest, for ever blest, are ye,

Mid the sinless, little children,

Who have heard his "Come to me!" 'Yond the shades of death's dark valley, Now ye lean upon his breast, Where the wicked dare not enter,

And the weary rest!

We are wicked-we are weary—
For us pray, and for us plead;
God, who ever hears the sinless,
May through you the sinful heed;
Pray that, through Christ's mediation,
All our faults may be forgiven;
Plead that ye be sent to greet us
At the gates of Heaven!


"Tis night, and in darkness;-the visions of youth Flit solemn and slow in the eye of the mind; The hopes that excited have perish'd ;—and truth Laments o'er the wreck they are leaving behind. "Tis midnight;-and wide o'er the regions of riot

Are spread, deep in silence, the wings of repose; And man, sooth'd from revel and lull'd into quiet, Forgets in his slumber the weight of his woes. How gloomy and dim is the scowl of the heaven, Whose azure the clouds with their darkness invest: Not a star o'er the shadowy concave is given,

To omen a something like hope in the breast. Hark! how the lone night-wind up-tosses the forest; A downcast regret through the mind slowly steals; But ah! 'tis the tempests of Fortune, that sorest The desolate heart in its loneliness feels. Where, where are the spirits in whom was my trust;

Whose bosoms with mutual affection would burn? Alas! they are gone to their homes in the dust; The grass rustles drearily over their urn: Whilst I, in a populous solitude languish,

Mid foes who beset me, and friends who are cold: Yes, the pilgrim of earth oft has felt in his anguish

That the heart may be widow'd before it be old! Affection can soothe but its vot'ries an hour,Doom'd soon in the flames that it raised to de


But oh! Disappointment has poison and power To ruffle and fret the most patient of heart! How oft 'neath the dark-pointed arrows of malice Hath merit been destined to bear and to bleed; And they who of pleasure have emptied the chalice, Can tell that the dregs are full bitter indeed! Let the storms of adversity lower,-'tis in vain, Though friends should forsake me and foes should condemn;

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WEEP not for her! Her span was like the sky,
Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright,
Like flowers that know not what it is to die,
Like long link'd shadeless months of polar light,
Like music floating o'er a waveless lake,
While echo answers from the flowery brake,
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! She died in early youth,
Ere hope had lost its rich romantic hues,
When human bosoms seem'd the homes of truth,
And earth still gleam'd with beauty's radiant

Her summer prime waned not to days that freeze,
Her wine of life was not run to the lees:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! By fleet or slow decay
It never grieved her bosom's core to mark
The playmates of her childhood wane away,

Her prospects wither, and her hopes grow dark.
Translated by her God with spirit shriven,
She pass'd, as 'twere on smiles, from earth to

Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! It was not hers to feel

The miseries that corrode amassing years,
'Gainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel,
To wander sad down age's vale of tears,
As whirl the wither'd leaves from friendship's tree,
And on earth's wintry wold alone to be:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! She is an angel now,
And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise,
All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow,
Sin, sorrow, suffering, banish'd from her eyes;
Victorious over death, to her appears
The vista'd joys of heaven's eternal years:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! Her memory is the shrine
Of pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers,
Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline,

Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers,
Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light,
Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! There is no cause of wo,
But rather nerve the spirit that it walk
Unshrinking o'er the thorny path below,

And from earth's low defilements keep thee back; So, when a few fleet swerving years have flown, She'll meet thee at heaven's gate-and lead thee on: Weep not for her!


"TWAS on a sultry summer noon,

The sky was blue, the breeze was still, And 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 seem'd sleeping, And wild bees murmur'd in their mirth, So pleasantly, it seem'd as earth A jubilee was keeping!

And canst thou be, unto my soul

I said, that dread Northumbrian field, Where war's terrific thunder roll

Above two banded kingdoms peal'd? From out the forest of his spears Ardent imagination hears The crash of Surrey's onward charging; While curtel-axe and broad-sword gleam Opposed, a bright, wide, coming stream, Like Solway's tide enlarging.

Hark to the turmoil and the shout,

The war-cry, and the cannon's boom! Behold the struggle and the rout,

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!

Mown down like swathes of summer flowers,
Yes! on the cold earth there they lie,
The lords of Scotland's banner'd towers,
The chosen of her chivalry!
Commingled with the vulgar dead,
Perhaps lies many a mitred head;

And thou, the vanguard onwards leading,
Who left the sceptre for the sword,
For battle-field the festal board,

Liest low amid the bleeding!

Yes! here thy life-star knew decline,

Though hope, that strove to be deceived, Shaped thy lone course to Palestine,

And what it wish'd 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 gray top, the linnet sang, And, o'er the slopes where conflict rang, The quiet sheep were grazing. And were the nameless dead unsung,

The patriot and the peasant train, Who like a phalanx round thee clung,

To find but death on Flodden Plain? No! many a mother's melting lay Mourn'd o'er the bright flowers wede away; And many a maid, with tears of sorrow,

Whose locks no more were seen to wave, Wept for the beauteous and the brave, Who came not on the morrow!


THIS modern classic bookseller is a worthy St. Peter, holding the keys to the Heaven of Poetry. By his enterprise and liberality he has brought BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, BEN JONSON, MASSINGER and WYCHERLEY to the table and shelf of the poor scholar, a benevolent work for which the lovers of wit, sentiment, and verse, the friends of all true humanities, "rise up and call him blessed." Mr. MoxoN is the publisher of ROGERS, WORDSWORTH, CAMPBELL, TALFOURD, TENNYSON, HUNT, and BROWNING. He was the friend of LAMB when living,-" closer than a brother," and death has not ended the sweet labours of friendship. The numerous editions

of "Elia" are frankincense laid on the tomb of a noble spirit. Mr. Moxon, too, has suffered a prosecution for the publication of SHELLEY, and been vindicated in England by the eloquence of TALFOURD; though he has needed no vindication, for his motives are here above the reach of his assailant. If pure sentiment and the cultivation of the heart's best affections needed any introduction to the soul of the reader, they would have it here in Mr. MoxON, the friend of the Muses and their sons. But Mr. MoxON on the score of his own merits may stand "unbonnetted" among his brethren. We quote from the edition of his poems published in 1843.


FAIREST of virgins, daughter of a God,

That dwellest where man never trod,
Yet unto him such joy dost give,

That through thy aid he still in paradise may live!
Immortal Muse, thy glorious praise to sing,

Could I a thousand voices bring,

They were too few. Who like to thee Can captivate the heart whose soul is melody?

Early thou lead'st me to some gentle hill,

And wakest for me the holy thrill Of birds that greet the welcome morn, Rejoicing on wild wing, through fields of ether borne. Thou paint'st the landscape which I then survey, Perfumest with odours sweet my way, Till I forget this world of wo,

And journey through a land where peerless pleasures flow.

At noon thou bid'st descend a golden shower;
To dream of thee I seek the bower,
And, like a prince of Inde, the shade
Enjoy, by thy blest presence more voluptuous made.
At eve, when twilight like a nun is seen,

Pacing the grove with pensive mien, "Tis then thou comest with most delight; No hour can be compared with thine 'twixt day and night.

"Tis, as it fadeth, like the farewell smile, Which settles on the lips awhile

Of those we love, ere they in death Resign to heaven their souls, to us their latest breath.

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The goodly of old time thou bring'st to view,
And with ancestral pomp canst strew
The unromantic smooth-paced ways
Of these our philosophic but degenerate days.
The flower of chivalry before me stand,

Clad in bright steel, a warlike band;
Among them some who served the Muse,
And at their head the man whom she could naught

Old bards are there! mine eyes in reverence fall
Before their presence, 'neath whose thrall
My young life one sweet dream hath been,
Dwelling on earth in joys ideal and unseen.
Thou makest the precious tear to gush from eyes,
Strangers to nature's sympathies;
Tyrant and slave alike to thee

Have knelt, and solace found in dire adversity.
Through thee the lover sees with frantic pride
His mistress fairer than Troy's bride;
Through the sweet magic of thy art
He glories in his wounds, and hugs the envenom'd

Sir Philip Sidney.

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