None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so.
As the ground was before thus let it be.-
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow,
And is this all the world hath gain'd by thee,
Thou first and last of fields, king-making Victory!
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose, with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ;—
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !
Did you not hear it ?-No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd;
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet,
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-
But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! arm! it is!-it is! the cannon's op'ning roar!
Within a window'd niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, And rous'd the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell! Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there was sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron. and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Rous'd up the soldier ere the morning star;
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! they come,
they come!"
And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose!
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard, and heard too have her Saxon foes:
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! but with the breath which fills
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With their fierce native daring, which instills
The stirring memory of a thousand years:
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops as they pass,
Grieving-if aught inanimate e'er grieves-
Over the unreturning brave-alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure: when this fiery mass
Of living valour, rolling on the foe
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay:
The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, The morn, the marshalling in arms-the day, battle's magnificently stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover-heap'd and pent, Rider and horse,--friend, foe,-in one red burial blent:
THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN.
THE world's a stage-and man has seven ages,
So Shakspeare writes, king of dramatic sages;
But he forgot to tell you in his plan,
That Woman plays her part as well as Man.
First, how her infant heart with triumph swells,
When the red coral shakes its silver bells!
She, like young statesmen, as the rattle rings,
Leaps at the sound, and struts in leading strings.
Next, little Miss, in pin-a-fore so trim,
With nurse so noisy-with mamma so prim-
Eager to tell you all she's taught to utter,
Lisps as she grasps the allotted bread and butter;
Type of her sex-who, though no longer young,
Holds every thing with ease, except the tongue.
A School Girl then, she curls her hair in papers,
And mimics Father's gout and Mother's vapours ;
Tramples alike on custom and on toes,
And whispers all she hears to all she knows:
Betty," she cries, "it comes into my head,
Old maids grow cross because their cats are dead;
My governess has been in such a fuss,
About the death of our old tabby puss;
She wears black stockings-ha! ha!-what a pother,
'Cause one old cat's in mourning for another!'
The child of nature-free from pride and pomp,
And sure to please, though nothing but a romp.
Next riper Miss, who, nature more disclosing, Now finds some tracts of art are interposing; And with blue laughing eyes behind her fan, First acts her part with that great actor,-Man!
Behold her now an ogling vain Coquette,
Catching male gudgeons in her silver net.
All things revers'd-the neck cropt close and bare,
Scarce feels the incumbrance of a single hair;
Whilst the thick forehead tresses, frizzled full,
Rival the tufted locks that grace the bull.
Then comes that sober character a Wife,
With all the dear distracting cares of life.
A thousand cards, a thousand joys extend,
For what may not upon a card depend?
Though justice in the morn claim fifty pounds,
Five hundred won at night may heal the wounds.
Now she'll snatch half a glance at opera, ball,
A meteor trac'd by none, though seen by all;
'Till spousy finds, while anxious to immure her,
A patent coffin only can secure her!
At last the Dowager, in ancient flounces,
With snuff and spectacles, this age denounces.
And thus she moralizes:-
(speaks like an old woman) "How bold and forward each young flirt appears; Courtship in my time lasted seven long years; Now seven little months suffice of course, For courting, marrying, scolding, and divorce. What with their truss'd-up shapes and pantaloons, Dress occupies the whole of honey-moons.
They say we have no souls-but what more odd is,
Nor men, nor women, now have any bodies.
When I was young, my heart was always tender,
And would to ev'ry spouse I had surrender;
Their wishes to refuse I never durst,
And my fourth died as happy as my first."
Truce to such splenetic and rash designs,
And let us mingle candour with our lines.
In all the stages of domestic life,
As child, as sister, parent, friend, and wife;
Woman, the source of every fond employ,
Softens affliction, and enlivens joy.
What is your boast, male rulers of the land?
How cold and cheerless all you can command;
Vain your ambition-vain your wealth and power,
Unless kind woman share your raptur'd hour;
Unless, 'midst all the glare of pageant art,
She adds her smile, and triumphs in your heart.
HOHENLINDEN.
ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night.
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch aud trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steeds to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.
And redder yet those fires shall glow,
On Linden's hills of blood-stained snow,
And darker yet shall be the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
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