Close his

eyes;

his work is done!

What to him is friend
Rise of morn or det

Stand of

man

of Sun, kiss of woman?

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the Snow! What cares he? he cannot know; hiin - low!

Lay

POEMS OF PEACE AND WAR.

WAR FOR THE SAKE OF PEACE.
FROM "BRITANNIA."

WAR.

What painful patience? What incessant care?
What mixed anxiety? What sleepless toil?
E'en from the rash protected, what reproach?
For he thy value knows; thy friendship he
To human nature: but the better thou,
The richer of delight, sometimes the more
Inevitable WAR, - when ruffian force
Awakes the fury of an injured state.
E'en the good patient man whom reason rules,
Roused by bold insult and injurious rage,
With sharp and sudden check the astonished sons
Of violence confounds; firm as his cause
His bolder heart; in awful justice clad;
His eyes effulging a peculiar fire:

And, as he charges through the prostrate war,
His keen arm teaches faithless men no more
To dare the sacred vengeance of the just.

Then ardent rise! O, great in vengeance rise!
O'erturn the proud, teach rapine to restore;
And, as you ride sublimely round the world,
Make every vessel stoop, make every state
At once their welfare and their duty know.

WAR.

JAMES THOMSON.

AH! whence yon glare, That fires the arch of heaven? — that dark-red smoke

In darkness, and pure and spangling snow Gleams faintly through the gloom that gathers round!

Hark to that roar, whose swift and deafening
peals

In countless echoes through the mountains ring,
Startling pale midnight on her starry throne!
Now swells the intermingling din; the jar
Frequent and frightful of the bursting bomb;
The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the
shout,

The ceaseless clangor, and the rush of men
Inebriate with rage; - loud, and more loud
The discord grows; till pale death shuts the

scene,

And o'er the conqueror and the conquered draws
His cold and bloody shroud. Of all the men
Whom day's departing beam saw blooming there,
In proud and vigorous health; of all the hearts
That beat with anxious life at sunset there,
How few survive, how few are beating now!
All is deep silence, like the fearful calm
That slumbers in the storm's portentous pause;
Save when the frantic wail of widowed love

Comes shuddering on the blast, or the faint moan

With which some soul bursts from the frame of clay

Wrapt round its struggling powers.

The gray morn Dawns on the mournful scene; the sulphurous smoke

Before the icy wind slow rolls away,

And the bright beams of frosty morning dance
Along the spangling snow. There tracks of blood
Even to the forest's depth, and scattered arms,
And lifeless warriors, whose hard lineaments
Death's self could change not, mark the dreadful
path

Of the outsallying victors; far behind,
Black ashes note where their proud city stood.
Within yon forest is a gloomy glen,

Each tree which guards its darkness from the
day

Blotting the silver moon? The stars are quenched Waves o'er a warrior's tomb.