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For I have from my father gone ;
A mother, whom I love;
And have no friend save these alone,
But thee, and one above.
“ My father bless'd me fervently,
Yet did not much complain ;
But sorely will my mother sigh,
Till I come back again.”.
Enough, enough, my little lad,
Such tears become thine eye;
If I thy guileless bosom had,
Mine own would not be dry. Byron.
The hunting tribes of air and earth
Respect the brethren of their birth;
Nature, who loves the claim of kind,
Less cruel chase to each assign'd.
The falcon, poised on soaring wing,
Watches the wild-duck by the spring ;
The slowhound wakes the fox's lair ;
The greyhound presses on the hare:
The eagle pounces on the lamb;
The wolf devours the fleecy dam;
Even tiger fell, and sullen bear,
Their likeness and their lineage spare.--
Man only mars kind Nature's plan,
And turns the fierce pursuit on man ;
Plying war's desultory trade,
Incursion, fight, and ambuscade,
Since Nimrod, Cush's mighty son,
At first the bloody game begun.
LANDING OF THE BRITISH ARMY IN THE PENINSULA.
It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight!
The billows foam'd beneath a thousand oars,
Fast as they land, the red-cross ranks unite,
Legions on legions brightening all the shores.
Then banners rise, and cannon-signal roars,
Then peals the warlike thunder of the drum,
Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet-flourish pours,
And patriot hopes awake, and doubts are dumb,
For, bold in freedom's cause, the bands of ocean come!
A various host they come, -whose ranks display
Each mode in which the warrior meets the fight.
The deep battalion locks its firm
And meditates his aim the marksman light;
Far glance, the beams of sabres flashing bright;
There mounted squadrons shake the echoing mead;
Lacks not artillery, breathing flame and might;
Nor the fleet ordnance, whirl'd by rapid steed,
That rivals lightning's flash in ruin and in speed.
A various host--from kindred realms they come,
Brethren in arms, but rivals in renown.-
For yon fair bands shall merry England claim,
And, with their deeds of valour deck her crown.
Hers their bold port, and hers their martial frown,
And hers their scorn of death in freedom's cause,
of azure, and their locks of brown, And the blunt speech, that bursts without a pause, And freeborn thoughts, which league the soldier with
And, O loved warriors of the minstrel's land !
your bonnets nod, your tartans wave! The rugged form may
mark the mountain band, And harsher features, and a mien more grave; But ne'er in battle-field throbb'd heart so brave, As that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid, And, when the pibroch makes the battle rave, And level for the charge your arms are laid, Where lives the desperate foe, that for such onset staid ?
Hark! from yon stately ranks what laughter rings, Mingling wild mirth with war's stern minstrelsy, His jest while each blithe comrade round him flings, And moves to death with military glee:
Boast, Erin, boast them ! tameless, frank, and free;
In kindness warm, and fierce in danger known;
Rough Nature's children, humorous as she :
And He, yon chieftain,-strike the proudest tone
Of thy bold harp, green Isle !--the hero is thine own.
Oh! who, that shared them, ever shall forget
The emotions of the spirit-raising time,
When breathless in the mart the couriers met,
Early and late, at evening and at prime;
When the loud cannon, and the merry chime,
Hail'd news on news, as field on field was won,
When hope, long doubtful, soar'd at length sublime,
And our glad eyes, awake as day begun,
Watch'd joy’s broad banner rise to meet the rising sun!
Oh! these were hours, when thrilling joy repaid
A long, long course of darkness, doubts, and fears.
The heart-sick faintness of the hope delay'd,
The waste, the wo, the bloodshed, and the tears,
That track’d with terror twenty rolling years,
All was forgot in that blithe jubilee !
Her downcast eye even pale Affliction rears,
To sigh a thankful prayer, amid the glee,
That hail'd the despot's fall, and peace, and liberty.
Look forth, once more, with soften'd heart,
Ere from the field of fame we part;
Triumph and sorrow border near,
And joy oft melts into a tear.
Alas! what links of love that morn,
Has war's rude hand asunder torn!
For ne'er was field so sternly fought,
And ne'er was conquest dearer bought.
Here, piled in common slaughter, sleep
Those, whom affection long shall weep;
Here rests the sire, that ne'er shall strain
His orphans to his heart again;
The son, whom, on his native shore,
The parent's voice shall bless no more ;
The bridegroom, who has hardly press'd
His blushing consort to his breast;
The husband, whom, through many a year,
Long love and mutual faith endear.
Thou canst not name one tender tie,
But here, dissolved, its reliques lie !
Oh! when thou seest some mourner's veil
Shroud her thin form and visage pale ;
Or mark’st the matron's bursting tears
Stream, when the stricken drum she hears ;
Or seest how manlier grief, suppress'd,
Is labouring in a father's breast,
With no inquiry vain pursue
The cause, but think on Waterloo.
Forgive, brave dead, the imperfect lay!
Who may your names, your numbers say?
What high-strung harp, what lofty line,
To each the dear-earn'd fame assign,
From high-born chiefs of martial fame,
To the poor soldier's lowlier name?
Lightly ye rose that dawning day,
From your cold couch of swamp and clay,
To fill, before the sun was low,
The bed that morning cannot know.
the tear the green
And sacred be the heroes' sleep,
Till time shall cease to run ;
And ne'er, beside their noble
May Briton pass, and fail to crave
A blessing on the fallen brave,
Who fought with Wellington.
Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm,
Sad are the woes, that wreck thy manly form!
Rocks, waves, and winds, the shatter'd bark delay;
Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away.
But hope can here her moonlight vigils keep,
And sing to charm the spirit of the deep.
Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole,
Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul.
His native hills, that rise in happier climes,
The grot, that heard his song of other times,
His cottage home, his bark of slender sail,
His glassy lake, and brownwood blossom'd vale,
Rush on his thought; he sweeps before the wind,
Treads the loved shore he sigh'd to leave behind;
Meets, at each step, a friend's iliar face,
And flies, at last, to Helen's long embrace ;
Wipes from her eye the rapture-speaking tear,
And clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear!
While, long neglected, but at length caress'd,
His faithful dog salutes the smiling guest,
Points to the master's eyes, (where'er they roam,)
His wistful face, and whines a welcome home.
The lated peasant shunn'd the dell,
For Superstition wont to tell
Of many a grisly sound and sight,
Scaring its path at dead of night.
When Christmas logs blaze high and wide,
Such wonders speed the festal tide,
While Curiosity and Fear,
Pleasure and Pain, sit crouching near,
Till childhood's cheek no longer glows,
And village-maidens lose the rose.
The thrilling interest rises higher,
The circle closes nigh and nigher,