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Yet, when he hears the battle-cry,

His spirit heats as wild and high

As on the day that saw him wield

His virgin sword on battle-field;

The eve on which his comrades found him,

With England's colors wrapt around him,

His face turned upwards, and his hand

Still twined around his trusty brand,

As, spent with wounds, and weak with toil,

He lay upon the bloody soil.

E'en now, though swift advancing years

Might well decline this life of fears,

Though the deep scars upon his breast

Show claim to honorable rest,

He will not quit what time hits made

His joy, his habit, and his trade.

He envies not the peasant's lot,

His cheerful hearth, and humble cot;

Encampments have to him become

As constant, and as denr a home.

Such are the hearts of steel, whom war Binds in their cradle to his car, And leaves them in their latter day, With honor, medals, and half-pay, Burthened with all the cares of life, Repentance—asthma—and a wife.

And what am I, who thus can choose Such subject for so light a muse?

Who wake the smile, and weave the rhyme

In such a scene, at such a time.

Mary, whose pure and holy kiss

Is still a cherished dream of bliss,

When last I saw thy bright blue eye,

And heard thy voice of melody,

And felt thy timid, mild caress,

I was all hope—all joyousness!

We parted—and the morrow's sun—

Oh God! my bliss was past and done;

The lover's hope, the husband's vow,

Where were they then? ah! where wert thou?

Mary! thou vision loved and wept, Long years have passed since thou hast slept, Removed from gaze of mortal eye, The dreamless sleep of those that die; Long years! yet has not passed away The memory of that fatal day When all thy young and faded grace Before me lay in Death's embrace.

A throb of madness and of pain Shot through my heart, and through my brain; I felt it then, I feel it now, Though time is stamped upon my brow; Though all my veins grow cold with age, And o'er my memory's fading page Oblivion draws her damning line, And blots all images—save thine. Vol. II.—2

Thou left'st me—and I did become
An alien from my house and home;
A phantom in life's busy dream;
A bubble on misfortune's stream;
Condemned through varying scenes to rove,
With nought to hope, and nought to love;
No inward motive, that can give
Or fear to die, or wish to live.

Away! away! Death rides the breeze!
There is no time for thoughts like these;
Hark! from the foeman's distant camp
I hear their chargers' sullen tramp;
On! valiant Britons, to the fight!
On! for St. George, and England's right!
Green be the laurel—bright the meed,
Of those that shine in martial deed!
Short be the pang—swift pass the breath
Of those that die a Soldier's death!

THE COUNTY BALL.

"Busy people, great and small,
Awkward dancers, short and tall,
Ladies, fighting which shall call,
Loungers, pertly quizzing all."

Anon.

This is a night of pleasure! Care,
I shake thee from me! do not dare
To stir from out thy murky cell,
Where, in their dark recesses, dwell
Thy kindred Gnomes, who live to nip
The rose on Beauty's cheek and lip.
Until, beneath their venom'd breath,
Life wears the pallid hue of Death.
Avaunt! I shake thee from me, Care!
The gay, the youthful, and the fair,
From " Lodge," and "Court," and "House,"

and " Hall,"
Are hurrying to the County Ball.
Avaunt! I tread on haunted ground,
And giddy Pleasure draws around,
To shield us from thine envious spite,
Her magic circle! Nought to-night

Over that guarded barrier flies
But laughing lips and smiling eves;
My look shall gaze around me free,
And like my look my line shall be;
While fancy leaps in every vein,
While love is life, and thought is pain,
I will not rule that look and line
By any word or will of thine.

The Moon hath risen! Still and pale
Thou movest in thy silver veil,
Queen of the night! the filmy shroud
Of many a mild, transparent cloud
Hides, yet adorns thee ;—meet disguise
To shield thy blush from mortal eyes.
Full many a maid hath lov'd to gaze
Upon thy melancholy rays;
And many a fond, despairing youth
Hath breath'd to thee his tale of truth;
And many a luckless rhyming wight
Hath look'd upon thy tender light,
And spilt his precious ink upon it,
In Ode, or Elegy, or Sonnet.
Alas! at this inspiring hour
I feel not, I, thy boasted power!
Nor seek to gain thine approbation
By vow, or prayer, or invocation;
I ask not what the vapors are, *
That veil thee like a white cymar;
Nor do I care a single straw

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