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Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track:
'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcom'd me back. I flew to the pleasant fields, travers'd so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledg'd we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart, Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn; And fain was their war-broken soldier to stayBut sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. Campbell.

4.-The Female Exile.

YE hills of my country, soft fading in blue;
The seats of my childhood, for ever adieu!
Yet not for a brighter your skies I resign,
When my wandering footsteps revisit the Rhine:
But sacred to me is the roar of the wave,

That mingles its tide with the blood of the brave;
Where the blasts of the trumpets for battle combine,
And the heart was laid low that gave rapture to mine.
Ye scenes of remembrance that sorrow beguil'd,
Your uplands I leave for the desolate wild;
For nature is nought to the eye of despair,
But the image of hopes that have vanish'd in air;
Again, ye fair blossoms of flower and of tree,
Ye shall bloom to the morn, tho' ye
bloom not for me:
Again your lone wood-paths that wind by the stream,
Be the haunt of the lover-to hope-and to dream.
But never to me shall the summer renew

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The bowers where the days of my happiness flew; Where my soul found her partner, and thought to be

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The colours of heaven on the dwellings of woe!

Too faithful recorders of times that are past,
The Eden of Love that was ever to last!
Once more may soft accents your wild echoes fill,
And the young and the happy be worshippers still.
To me ye are lost!-but your summits of green
Shall charm thro' the distance of many a scene,
In woe, and in wandering, and deserts, return
Like the soul of the dead to the perishing urn!
Ye hills of my country! farewell evermore,
As I leave the dark waves of your rock-rugged shore,
And ask of the hovering gale if it come

From the oak-towering woods on the mountains of
home.
Miss Bannerman.

5.-The Battle of Hohenlinden.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden shew'd another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet sound array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle blade;
And furious every charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven;
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven;
And volleying like the bolts of Heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.

And redder still these fires shall glow,
On Linden's hills of purpl'd snow;
And bloodier still shall be the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

"Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun, When furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout 'mid their sulph'rous canopy.

The combat deepens: On, ye brave!
Who rush to glory and the grave.
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry.

Oh! few shall part where many meet;
The snow shall be your winding sheet;
And every turf beneath your feet

Shall mark the soldier's cemetry.

6.-The Battle of Busaco.

Campbell.

BEYOND Busaco's mountains dun,
When far had roll'd the sultry sun,
And night her pall of gloom had thrown
O'er nature's still convexity!

High on the heath our tents were spread,
The cold turf was our cheerless bed,
And o'er the hero's dew-chill'd head,
The banners flapp'd incessantly.
The loud war-trumpet woke the morn,
The quiv'ring drum, the pealing horn,
From rank to rank the cry is borne,
"Arouse for death or victory!"

The orb of day, in crimson dye,
Began to mount the morning sky;
Then, what a scene for warrior's eye
Hung on the bold declivity.

The serried bay'nets glitt'ring stood,
Like isicles, on hills of blood;
An aerial stream, a silver wood,
Reel'd in the flick'ring canopy.

Like waves of ocean rolling fast,
Or thunder cloud before the blast,
Massena's legions stern and vast,
Rush'd to the dreadful revelry.
The pause is o'er; the fatal shock
A thousand thousand thunders woke;
The air grows sick; the mountains rock;
Red ruin rides triumphantly.

Light boil'd the war-cloud to the sky,
In phantom tow'rs and columns high,
But dark and dense their bases lie,
Prone on the battle's boundary.
The Thistle wav'd her bonnet blue,
The Harp her wildest war notes threw,
The Red Rose gain'd a fresher hue,
Busaco, in thy heraldry.

Hail, gallant brothers! Woe befall
The foe that braves thy triple wall!
Thy sons, O wretched Portugal!
Rous'd at their feats of chivalry.

7.-The Visions of Fancy.

OH! yet, ye dear, deluding visions stay!
Fond hopes of innocence and fancy born!
For you I'll cast these waking thoughts away,
For one wild dream of life's romantic morn.

Ah! no: the sunshine o'er each object spread
By flattering hope, the flowers that blew so fair;
Like the gay gardens of Armida fled,

And vanish'd from the powerful rod of care. So the poor pilgrim, who, in rapturous thought, Plans his dear journey to Loretto's shrine, Seems on his way by guardian seraphs brought, Sees aiding angels favour his design.

Ambrosial blossoms, such of old as blew

By those fresh founts on Eden's happy plain,

And Sharon's roses all his passage strew:
So fancy dreams; but fancy's dreams are vain.
Wasted and weary on the mountain's side,
His way unknown, the hapless pilgrim lies,
Or takes some ruthless robber for his guide,
And prone beneath his cruel sabre dies.

Life's morning-landscape gilt with orient light, Where hope and joy and fancy hold their reign, The grove's green wave, the blue stream sparkling bright,

The blithe hours dancing round Hyperion's wain; In radiant colours youth's free hand pourtrays, Then holds the flattering tablet to his eye; Nor thinks how soon the vernal grove decays, Nor sees the dark cloud gathering o'er the sky. Hence fancy conquer'd by the dart of pain, And wandering far from her Platonic shade, Mourns o'er the ruins of her transient reign, Nor unrepining sees her visions fade. Their parent banish'd, hence her children fly, Their fairy race that fill'd her festive train; Joy rears his wreath, and hope inverts her eye, And folly wonders that her dream was vain.

8.-Confidence in God.

Langhorne.

How are thy servants blest, O Lord!
How sure is their defence !

Eternal wisdom is their guide,

Their help omnipotence.

In foreign realms, and lands remote,
Supported by thy care,

Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt,
And breath'd in tainted air.

Thy mercy sweeten'd every soil,
Made every region please;
The hoary Alpine hills it warm'd,
And smooth'd the Tyrrhene seas.

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