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How sound his sleep—his battle's o'er,

Life's fitful fever passed away,
Where sounds of war are heard no more,

And trump and drum are mute for aye.

While buried grandeur cannot buy

One mourner o'er its lonely bier,
His name shall breathe in beauty's sigh—

His memory brighten in her tear.

'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,
Can thoughts like this a balm instil?

Can glory's voice a charm impart
To lull—to soothe its cureless ill?

They'll bid her try to think no more

On days and dreams for ever fled; They'll say that tears can ne'er restore

The loved—the lost—the silent dead.

i

But when was sorrow known to woo

The themes that make its pangs the less?

Or what have broken hearts to do
With cold and dull forgetfulness?

Or how should e'er the source of woe
Prove solace to the bosom's pain?

The silent tear must ever flow,
Because, alas I it flows in vain.

John Malcolm, Esq.

ON SEEING, IN A LIST OF NEW MUSIC',
THE WATERLOO WALTZ.

A moment pause—ye British fair,
While pleasure's phantom ye pursue;
And say—if sprightly dance—or air,
Suit with the name of Waterloo?

Awful was the victory!

Chastened should the triumph be;

'Midst the laurels she has won,

Britain mourns for many a son!

Veiled in clouds the morning rose,

Nature seemed to mourn the day,

Which consigned, before its close,

Thousands to their kindred clay!

How unfit for courtly ball,
Or the giddy festival,
Was the grim, and ghastly view,
Ere evening closed on Waterloo!

Shall scenes like these the dance inspire,

Or wake the enlivening notes, of mirth?

Oh! shivered be the recreant lyre

That gave the base idea birth!

Other sounds—I ween were there,
Other music--rent the air,
Other waltz—the warriors knew
When they closed on Waterloo!

Forbear—till time, with lenient hand,
Has soothed the pang of recent sorrow,
And let the picture distant stand,
The softening hue of years to borrow.

When our race has passed away,
Hands unborn may wake the lay;

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And give to joy alone, the view
Of Britain's feme—on Waterloo.

Anon.

IT IS NOT THE TEAR.

It is not the tear at this moment shed,

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fledi,

Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. >Tis the tear through many a long day wept,

Through a life by his loss all shaded; 'Tis the sad remembrance, fondly kept,

When all lighter griefs have faded.

Oh! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's light,

While it shines through our hearts, will improve them; For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,

When we think how he lived but to love them!
And as buried saints have given perfume

To shrines where they've been lying;
So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom

From the image he left there in dying I

Moore.

O! LAND OF THE GODLY.

O! Land of the Godly, how lone and deserted!

Thy tribes wander friendless, thy glory is gone! Thy Prophets are silent—their glory departed,

And hushed is the voice of the monarch of song.—

'Midst the towers of thy Salem the lone wolf is howling, O'er the wrecks of thy temple the wild Arab strays,

'Mong the tombs of thy fathers the tiger is prowling,
As a dream we remember the fame of thy days.—

No longer the sounds of rejoicing and gladness,
No longer the voice of thy harp thrills the ear;

Thy mirth is departed—thy joy changed to sadness—
Thy relic is ruin—thy fate is—despair!

Byron.

OUR FATHERS, WHERE ARE THEYE

Our fathers,—where are they ?—and where
The prophets ?—from this mortal scene

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