With ghastly wound, and broken brand, A dying warrior lay. No fond and faithful one was there To kneel her parting love beside, To staunch his death-wound with her hair, And stay life's ebbing tide. He lay beside the gushing spring, That from its fount in freshness burst; But helping hand was none to bring Which scorches in the parting breath, Its fiery agony. E'en then on memory's wakeful eye Would forms of children, wife, and friend, Fair as a vision of the sky, In rainbow beauty blend A dream of summer, love, and youth, And scenes he ne'er may see again, In all the glowing tints of truth Break o'er his dying brain. A While victory sends her deafening shout, Then beauty droops within. She clasps her babes with sob and sigh, John Malcolm, Esq. THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. His sword and plume are on his pall, The muffled drum beats drear and deep; And gathering tears are seen to fall, From warriors' eyes unused to weep. They lay him in his dreamless bed, The banners droop above the brave; The requiem of the glorious dead Thrice rolls in thunder o'er his grave. How sound his sleep-his battle's o'er, Where sounds of war are heard no more, And trump and drum are mute for aye. While buried grandeur cannot buy His name shall breathe in beauty's sigh- "Twill steal upon the festal train, The voice of reckless mirth to quell, And wake in music's melting strain, Whose accents weep so wildly well. But to the lone and widowed heart, To lull-to soothe its cureless ill? They'll bid her try to think no more They'll say The loved-the lost-the silent dead. But when was sorrow known to woo The themes that make its pangs the less? With cold and dull forgetfulness? Or how should e'er the source of woe Because, alas it flows in vain. John Malcolm, Esq. ON SEEING, IN A LIST OF NEW MUSIC, THE WATERLOO WALTZ. A moment pause-ye British fair, Awful was the victory! Veiled in clouds the morning rose, Was the grim, and ghastly view, Shall scenes like these the dance inspire, Other sounds I ween were there, Other music-rent the air, Forbear-till time, with lenient hand, When our race has passed away, |