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He knew not that his chosen hand
(Made strong by Heaven) his native land
Would rescue from the shameful yoke
Of slavery-the which he broke!

XIX.-FLIGHT OF XERXES.-Miss Jewsbury.

I SAW him on the battle-eve,

When like a king he bore him--
Proud hosts in glittering helm and greave,
And prouder chiefs before him!

The warrior, and the warrior's deeds,
The morrow, and the morrow's meeds--
No daunting thoughts came o'er him:
He looked around him, and his eye
Defiance flashed to earth and sky!

He looked on ocean,--its broad breast
Was covered with his fleet:

On earth, and saw from east to west
His bannered millions meet:

While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast,
Shook with the war-cry of that host,
The thunder of their feet!

He heard the imperial echoes ring-
He heard, and felt himself a king!

I saw him next alone:-
:-nor camp
Nor chief his steps attended:
Nor banners' blaze, nor coursers' tramp,
With war-cries proudly blended.
He stood alone, whom fortune high
So lately seemed to deify;

He who with Heaven contended,

Fled, like a fugitive and slave;
Behind, the foe!--before, the wave!

He stood-fleet, army, treasure, gone,--
Alone, and in despair!

While wave and wind swept ruthless on,
For they were monarchs there;
And Xerxes, in a single bark,

Where late his thousand ships were dark,

Must all their fury dare!-

What a revenge!-a trophy this,

For thee, immortal Salamis !

XX.-GLENARA.-Campbell.

O, HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad on the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?
'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear,
And her sire and her people are called to the bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud:
Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud:
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They marched all in silence-they looked to the ground.
In silence they reached over mountain and moor,

..

To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar:
'Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn:
Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.

"And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse,
Why fold ye your mantles? why cloud ye your brows?"
So spake the rude chieftain; no answer is made,
But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed!

"I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her shroud,"
Cried a voice from the kinsmen all wrathful and loud;
"And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem:
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

Oh, pale grew the cheek of the chieftain, I ween,
When the shroud was unclosed, and no body was seen!
Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn,----
"Twas the youth that had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn!
"I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her grief,
I dreamed that her lord was a barbarous chief;
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem:--
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"
In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert revealed where his lady was found:
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne :
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!

XXI. HARMOSAN.-Anon.

Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian throne was done,
And the Moslems' fiery valour had the crowning victory won:
Harmosan, the last of foemen, and the boldest to defy,
Captive, overborne by numbers, they were bringing forth to die.
Then exclaimed that noble Satrap, "Lo, I perish in my thirst;
Give me but one drink of water, and let then arrive the worst.'
In his hand he took the goblet, but awhile the draught forbore,
Seemingly doubtfully the purpose of the victors to explore.
"But what fear'st thou?" cried the Caliph: "dost thou dread a
secret blow?

"

Fear it not; our gallant Moslems no such treacherous dealings know.
Thou may'st quench thy thirst securely; for thou shalt not die before
Thou hast drunk that cup of water: this reprieve is thine--no more.
Quick the Satrap dashed the goblet down to earth with ready hand,
And the liquid sunk,--for ever lost, amid the burning sand:
"Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the water of that cup
I have drained:-then bid thy servants that spilled water gather up."

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For a moment stood the Caliph, as by doubtful passions stirred: Then exclaimed, For ever sacred must remain a Monarch's word. Bring forth another cup, and straightway to the noble Persian give:— Drink, I said before, and perish;-now, I bid thee drink and live!"

XXII.-MIRIAM'S SONG.-Moore.

SOUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumphed―his people are free!
Sing!--for the pride of the tyrant is broken,

His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave;
How vain was their boasting!--the Lord hath but spoken,
And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumphed--his people are free.

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord!
His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword!
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?
For the Lord hath looked out from his pillar of glory,
And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumphed-his people are free!

XXIII.-WAR-SONG OF THE GREEKS.-Proctor (Barry Cornwall.)

AWAKE! 'tis the terror of war!

The crescent is tossed on the wind;

But our flag flies on high, like the perilous star

Of the battle. Before and behind,

Wherever it glitters, it darts

Bright death into tyrannous hearts.

Who are they that now bid us be slaves?

They are foes to the good and the free;

Go, bid them first fetter the might of the waves!
The sea may be conquered; but we

Have spirits untameable still,

And the strength to be free,-and the will!

The Helots are come: In their eyes

Proud hate and fierce massacre burn;
They hate us,--but shall they despise?
They are come; shall they ever return?
O God of the Greeks! from thy throne
Look down, and we'll conquer alone!

Our fathers,-- each man was a god,

His will was a law, and the sound

Of his voice, like a spirit's, was worshipped: he trod,
And thousands fell worshippers round:

From the gates of the West to the Sun,
He bade, and his bidding was done.

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Who once were as free as the wind?

Who is it that threatens,--who is it arraigns?
Are they princes of Europe or Ind?
Are they kings to the uttermost pole?
They are dogs, with a taint on their soul!

XXIV. THE FALL OF D'ASSAS.-Mrs. Hemans.

ALONE, through gloomy forest shades, a Soldier went by night,
No moon-beam pierced the dusky glades, no star shed guiding light.
Yet, on his vigil's midnight round, the youth all cheerly passed;
Unchecked by aught of boding sound, that muttered in the blast.
Where were his thoughts that lonely hour?-In his far home per-
chance-

His father's hall-his mother's bower, 'midst the gay vines of France.
Hush! hark! did stealing steps go by? came not faint whispers near?
No! The wild wind hath many a sigh, amidst the foliage sere.
Hark! yet again!—and from his hand. what grasp hath wrenched
the blade?

O, single, 'midst a hostile band, young Soldier, thou'rt betrayed!
"Silence!" in under-tones they cry; "No whisper--not a breath!
The sound that warns thy comrades nigh shall sentence thee to
death!"

Still at the bayonet's point he stood, and strong to meet the blow; And shouted, 'midst his rushing blood, "Arm! arm!-Auvergne !the foe!"

The stir the tramp-the bugle-call-he heard their tumults grow; And sent his dying voice through all--“ Auvergne! Auvergne! the foe!"

XXV. THE DRUM.-Douglas Jerrold's Magazine.

YONDER is a little drum, hanging on the wall;

Dusty wreaths, and tattered flags, round about it fall.

A shepherd youth on Cheviot's hills, watched the sheep whose skin
A cunning workman wrought, and gave the little drum its din.
O, pleasant are fair Cheviot's hills, with velvet verdure spread,
And pleasant 'tis, among its heath, to make your summer bed;
And sweet and clear are Cheviot's rills that trickle to its vales,
And balmily its tiny flowers breathe on the passing gales.
And thus hath felt the Shepherd-boy whilst tending of his fold;
Nor thought there was, in all the world, a spot like Cheviot's wold.
And so it was for many a day !--but change with time will come ;
And he (alas for him the day!) he heard the little drum!
"Follow," said the drummer-boy, "would you live in story!
For he who strikes a foeman down, wins a wreath of glory."
"Rub-a-dub!" and "rub-a-dub!" the drummer beats away-
The shepherd lets his bleating flock o'er Cheviot wildly stray.

On Egypt's arid wastes of sand the shepherd now is lying;
Around him many a parching tongue for "Water!" faintly crying:
O, that he were on Cheviot's hills, with velvet verdure spread,
Or lying 'mid the blooming heath where oft he made his bed:
Or could he drink of those sweet rills that trickle to its vales,
Or breathe once more the balminess of Cheviot's mountain gales!
At length, upon his wearied eyes, the mists of slumber come,
And he is in his home again-till wakened by the drum!
"Take arms! take arms!" his leader cries, "the hated foeman's nigh!"
Guns loudly roar--steel clanks on steel, and thousands fall to die.
The shepherd's blood makes red the sand: "Oh! water-give me
some!

"My voice might reach a friendly ear-but for that little drum !"

'Mid moaning men, and dying men, the drummer kept his way, And many a one by "glory " lured, did curse the drum that day. Rub-a-dub!" and "rub-a-dub!" the drummer beat aloud

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The shepherd died! and, ere the morn, the hot sand was his shroud. --And this is "Glory ?"-Yes; and still will man the tempter follow, Nor learn that Glory, like its drum, is but a sound-and hollow!

XXVI.-DEATH OF DE BOUNE.-Scott.

Он gay, yet fearful to behold,-
Flashing with steel, and rough with gold,
And bristled o'er with bills and spears,
With plumes and pennons waving fair,-
Was that bright battle-front! for there

Rode England's king and peers:

And who, that saw that monarch ride,
His kingdom battled by his side,
Could then his direful doom foretel!
Fair was his seat in knightly selle,
And in his sprightly eye was set
Some spark of the Plantagenet.

Though light and wandering was his glance,
It flashed, at sight of shield and lance.
"Know'st thou," he said, "De Argentine,
Yon knight who marshals thus their line?"-
"The tokens on his helmet tell

The Bruce, my liege; I know him well."-
"And shall the audacious traitor brave
The presence where our banners wave?"-
"So please my liege," said Argentine,
"Were he but horsed on steed like mine,
To give him fair and knightly chance,
I would adventure forth my lance."--
"In battle-day," the king replied,
"Nice tourney rules are set aside.
Still must the rebel dare our wrath?
Set on him-sweep him from our path!"
And, at king Edward's signal, soon
Dashed from the ranks Sir Henry Boune.

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