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And at set of sun,

When, my task is done,

Be sure that I'm ever with thee, Mary.

Barry Cornwall.

BATTLE OF TALAVERA.

Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ?—The fires of death,
The bale-fires flash on high :—from rock to rock
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe;
Death rides upon the sulphury siroc,
lied battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.

Lo! where the giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun,
With death-shot glowing in his fiery bands,
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;
Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon
Flashing afar,—and at his iron feet
Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done;

For on this morn three potent nations meet, To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies;
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, victory!
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally,
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,
Are met—as if at home they could not die—
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.

There shall they rot—ambition's honoured fools!
Yes! honour decks the turf that wraps their clay!
Vain sophistry! in these behold the tools,
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away
By myriads, where they dare to pave their way
With human hearts—to what ?—a dream alone.
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway?
Or call with truth one span of earth their owi>,
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?

Byron.

TO LAURA.

I did not weep, when I was told

Thy bridal-day was near;
But ah I the words dropped icy cold

Upon my anguished ear.
Like ' dust to dust' upon a bier,

The sounds sepulchral fell,
That came my throbbing heart to sear,

And rung my hopes' sad knell.

I met thee—on my marble brow

There wrinkled no fierce ire;
I touched thee—thou was changed, and now,

The thrill had nought of fire.
I smiled—my pride did that require;

And thou hadst shown how well
A smile can cloak a passion dire,

—Yea, smiled a cold farewell!

Anon. THE MARTYRED MISSIONARY.

I saw, upon a foreign shore,

A prisoner in his cell;
His hands were not imbrued in gore,

Nor could I gather well
What was his crime, save crime it be
To think the enslaved should be free—

Free to adore the God of heaven—
To know the Saviour—Christ;

To love and be beloved, nor riven
From home, as brutes, and priced

By monsters savage as the howl

Of warring winter at the pole.

His native land he left in youth—
No charm could tempt his stay;

With the words of everlasting truth
He hied him on his way—

To the darkest spot of earth's domain—

The land of the whip and clanking chain.

No home he sought by a river's brink,

In the shadiest spot of all: When sense was cloyed to rest, and think

What joy he next could call,
For the dark-hued damsels and the wine—
The burning pleasures of the line.

His hand it bore the word of God—
It spread his only view;

The scorching soil unmoved he trod,
And drank the unwholesome dew,

Peace from its living page to fling,

Balm in the cup of woe to wring.

O, 'twas enough to rouse all hell

To see that blessed book!
To mark beneath its magic spell,

The slave no longer look
Ay, prone on earth, but, rising, scan,
His chartered rights as free-born man!

The tree of liberty was ne'er

Of free spontaneous birth;
Watered with blood and many a tear,

It soars above the earth,

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