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BYRON.

The DYING GLADIATOR.

I see before me the Gladiator lie :
He leans upon his hand—his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his drooped head sinks gradually low—
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now
The arena swims around him—he is gone,

Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.

He heard it, but he heeded not—his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away; He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother—he, their sire. Butchered to make a Roman holiday— All this rushed with nis blood–Shail he expire And unrevenged?—Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your irel

WATERLoo.

There was a sound of revelry by night,
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 1 let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet—
But, hark l—that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before 1

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

Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sat Brunswick’s fated chieftain ; he did hear That sound the first amid 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 would quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

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 nights 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 Evans, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! 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 andlow.

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!

DRACHENFELLS.

The castled crag of Drachenfells
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine,
And hills all rich with blossomed trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scattered cities crowning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strewed a scene, which I should see
With double joy wert thou with me !

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And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes,
And hands which offer yearly flowers,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise;
Above, the frequent feudal towers
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray,
l And many a rock which steeply lowers,
And noble arch in proud decay,
Look o'er this vale of vintage borders;
But one thing want these banks of Rhine,
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine.

I send the lilies given to me;
Though long before thy hand they touch,
I know that they must withered be,
But yet reject them not as such ;
For I have cherished them as dear,
Because they yet may meet thine eye,
And guide thy soul to mine ev’n here,
When thou beholdst them drooping nigh,
And knowest them gathered by the Rhine,
And offered from my heart to thine !

The river nobly foams and flows,
The charm of this enchanted ground,
And all its thousand turns disclose
Some fresher beauty varying round;
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound
Through life to dwell delighted here;
Nor could on earth a spot be found
To nature and to me so dear,
Could thy dear eyes in following mine
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine.

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