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xiv. 'Tis the twink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud— O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?



On came the whirlwind—like the last
But fiercest sweep of tempest blast—
On came the whirlwind—steel-gleams broke;
Like lightning through the rolling smoke;

The war was waked anew;
Three hundred cannon-mouths roared loud,
And from their throats, with flash and cloud,

Their showers of iron threw.
Beneath their fire in full career,
Rushed on the ponderous cuirassier
The lancer qouched his ruthless spear,
And hurrying as to havoc near,

The cohprts' eagles flew.
In one dark torrent broad and strong, .,,'

The advancing onset rolled along,

Forth harbingered by fierce acclaim,

That from the shroud of smoke and flame,

Pealed wildly the imperial name.

But on the British heart were lost

The terrors of the charging host;

For not an eye the storm that viewed

Changed its proud glance of fortitude;

Nor was one forward footstep staid,

As dropped the dying and the dead.

Fast as their ranks the thunders tear,

Fast they renewed each serried square;

And on the wounded and the slain

Closed their diminished files again;

Till from their line scarce spears' lengths three,

Emerging from the smoke they see

Helmet and plume, and panoply—

Then waked their fire at once!
Each musketeer's revolving knell
As fast, as regularly fell,
As when they practise to display
Their discipline on festal day.

Then down went helm and lance,
Down were the eagle-banners sent,
Down reeling steeds and riders went,
Corslets were pierced, and pennons rent;

And to augment the fray,

Wheeled full against their staggering flanks,
The English horsemen's foaming ranks

Forced their resistless way:
Then to the musket-knell succeeds
The clash of swords—the neigh of steeds:
As plies the smith his clanging trade,
Against the cuirass rang the blade;
And while amid then. close array
The well-served cannon rent their way,
And while amid their scattered band,
Raged the fierce rider's bloody brand,
Recoiled in common rout and fear
Lancer, and guard, and cuirassier,
Horsemen and foot,—a mingled host,
Their leaders fallen, their standards lost.

'Sir W. Scott.


Sleep, little baby, sleep!

Not in thy cradle bed,
Not on thy mother's breast,
Henceforth shall ~be thy rest,

But with the quiet dead. Vol. I. B


Yes—with the quiet deads
Baby, thy rest shall be;

Oh! many a weary wight

Weary of life and light,

Would fain lie down with thue.

Flee, little tender nursling,
Flee to thy grassy nest;
There the first flowers shall blow,
The first pure flake of snow,
Shall fall upon thy breast.

Peace I Peace! the little bosom
Labours with shortening breath:

Peace! Peace! that tremulous sigh.

Speaks his departure nigh;
Those are the damps of death.

I've seen thee in thy beauty,
A thing all health and glee,

But never then wert thou

So beautiful as now,

Baby, thou seem'st to me.

Thine upturned eyes glazed over,
Like harebells wet with dew,

Already veiled and hid,
By the convulsed lid,
Their pupils dark and blue.

Thy little mouth half open,

Thy soft lips quivering,
As if (like summer air
Ruffling the rose leaves) there.

Thy soul were fluttering.

Mount up, immortal essence!

Young spirit! haste, depart! And is this death? Dread thing! If such thy visiting,

How beautiful thou art!

Oh! I could gaze for ever

Upon that waxen face: So passionless! so" pure! The little shrine was sare

An Angel's dwelling place.

Thou weepest, childless mother!

Aye weep,—'twill ease thine heart! He was thy firet bom son, Thy first, thy only one,

'Tis hard from him to part!

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