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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?
DECISIVE CHARGE AT WATERLOO.
On came the whirlwind—like the last
The war was waked anew;
Their showers of iron threw.
The cohprts' eagles flew.
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!
Then down went helm and lance,
And to augment the fray,
Wheeled full against their staggering flanks,
Forced their resistless way:
'Sir W. Scott.
TO A DYING INFANT
Sleep, little baby, sleep!
Not in thy cradle bed,
But with the quiet dead. Vol. I. B
Yes—with the quiet deads
Oh! many a weary wight
Weary of life and light,
Would fain lie down with thue.
Flee, little tender nursling,
Peace I Peace! the little bosom
Peace! Peace! that tremulous sigh.
Speaks his departure nigh;
I've seen thee in thy beauty,
But never then wert thou
So beautiful as now,
Baby, thou seem'st to me.
Thine upturned eyes glazed over,
Already veiled and hid,
Thy little mouth half open,
Thy soft lips quivering,
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!