THE REVIEW OF THE VICTIMS.

BY ALARIC A. WATTS.

I.

It was the dead midnight;

No star was in the sky;

The struggling moon shed a troubled light,
As she won her way on high;

II.

And deepest silence hung,

Like a garment, o'er the land;
When a loud, and shrill reveillé rung
From a grisly drummer's hand!

III.

It rolled through the startled space—
That wild, unearthly sound;

Till the martyred dead of a doomed race
Uprose, and crowded round.

IV.

From the sleeping city near ;

From the warm and genial South ;From the sands of Egypt's deserts drear; From the Danube's stormy mouth ;—

V.

From the ice-realms of the North ;-
From devoted Moscow's plain ;—
Trooped the might of armed thousands forth
To that stirring call again!

VI.

From the depths of Indian seas ;—

From the Tyrol's hills of blue ;— From the base of the snowy Pyrenees ;— From the "deadly Waterloo:"

VII.

For many a far-off land,

And many a wandering wave,

Had heard that stern and loud command,

And had yielded up its brave!

VIII.

The trumpet's peal is blown;

Those scattered hosts combine;

And the soldier-slaves of the iron crown

Arise and make their sign!

IX.

On shadowy chargers mounted,

With swords uplifted high,
From battle-fields uncounted,

The' Imperial Guards draw nigh!

X.

A legion old and hoary,

With cheeks all ghastly white;
With bosoms gashed and gory,

But eagles golden bright;

XI.

They raise their pallid brows

In the wan moon's sickly glare;
But vain the once loved sight to rouse
Their leader's deep despair!

*

XII.

With folded arms he stands,

As they pass him in review;

And sadly he looks on those gallant bands,

As he thinks on Waterloo !

The idea of the Spectre Drummer, is borrowed from a French Poem by Messrs. Barthelmy and Mery. This and the four succeeding stanzas are little more than a paraphrase.

XIII.

Still the drummer by his side,

Plies his bleached and fleshless arm;

Till surging on like the ocean tide,

Those grisly phantoms swarm.

XIV.

They shout no vivas now

For the chieftain once so dear;

But curses deep, though murmured low,

Alone salute his ear.

XV.

They clench their bony hands,

As they wheel beneath his sight; Where with folded arms, absorbed, he stands On Montmartre's frowning height.

XVI.

Ha! whence that phantom throng,
That file before him now;
And drag their maimed limbs along
So painfully and slow!

XVII.

From Jaffa's burning plain,

That shadowy host hath wended; In cool and savage triumph slain, When the battle strife was ended!

XVIII.

He shuts his conscious eyes

Their shrinking sense to save;

But a darker scene within them lies

'T is the gallant D'Enghein's grave!

XIX.

The torches glare around,

Where the dauntless Bourbon kneels;

In the castle fosse, on the damp chill ground, As the murderous volley peals!

XX.

And the muffled drum tolls out

The youthful hero's knell :-
The chieftain starts-'t is the battle-shout,

And the roll of the deep reveil!

XXI.

Myriads before him spread,

Their standards rear on high;

But the flags are white as the charnelled dead,

For the grave hath the victory!

XXII.

He strains his glance to look

Beyond that grisly train;

What doth he see but a barren rock,

A vulture, and a chain!