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Reverberate along that vale,
AN ASSAULT ON A CITY BY NIGHT.
Nought to be seen save the artillery's flame,
And in the Danube's waters shone the same,
Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame
Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises, When up the bristling Moslem rose at last,
Answering the Christian thunders with like voices; Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraced,
Which rocked as 'twere beneath the mighty noises ; While the whole rampart blazed like Ætna, when The restless Titan hickups in his den. And one enormous shout of “ Allah !” rose
In the same moment, loud as even the roar.
Of War's most mortal engines, to their foes
Hurling defiance: city, stream, and shore Resounding “ Allah !” and the clouds which close
With thickening canopy the conflict o'er, Vibrate to the Eternal name. Hark! through All sounds it pierceth, “ Allah! Allah ! Hu * !”
A SCENE AFTER A BATTLE. Upon a taken bastion where there lay
Thousands of slaughtered men, a yet warm group Of murdered women, who had found their way
To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop
A female child of ten years tried to stoop
With flashing eyes and weapons : matched with The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild them
Has feelings pure and polished as a gem,
And whom for this at last must we condemn ?
Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright, Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead :
When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight, I shall not say exactly what he said,
Because it might not solace“ ears polite;"
* Allah Hu ! is properly the war cry of the Mussul. mans, and they dwell long on the last syllable, which gives it a very wild and peculiar effect.
But what he did, was to lay on their backs,
And drove them with their brutal yells to seek
The wounds they richly merited, and shriek Their baffled rage and pain ; while waxing colder
As he turned o'er each pale and gory cheek,
A slender streak of blood announced how near
For the same blow which laid her mother here
As the last link with all she had held dear;
Upon each other, with dilated glance,
With joy to save, and dread of some mischance
With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, Like to a lighted alabaster vase.
THE FATE OF BEAUTY.
And leads him on from flower to flower
And every woe a tear can claim
BLUES AND AMATEUR AUTHORS. They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism ;
Nor write, and so they don't affect the muse;
Were never caught in epigram or witticism,
Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews,
But luckily these beauties are no “ blues ;”
Who having angled all his life for fame,
Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same
Of mediocrity, the furious tame,
The approving “Good !” (by no means good in law) Humming like flies around the newest blaze,
The bluest of blue bottles you e'er saw, Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise,
Gorging the little fame he gets all raw, Translating tongues he knows not even by letter, And sweating plays so middling, bad were better. One hates an author that's all author, fellows
In foolscap uniforms, turned up with ink, So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous,
One don't know what to say to them, or think,
Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink
Men of the world, who know the world like men,