Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon
Flashing afar,-and at his iron feet

Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done;
For on this morn three potent nations meet,

To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.

By Jove! it is a splendid sight to see
(For one who hath no friend nor brother there)
Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery,

Their various arms that glitter in the air!

What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey! All join the chase, but few the triumph share: The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array.

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;

Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies:
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, victory!
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,
Are met as if at home they could not die—
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,

And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.

There shall they rot-Ambition's honour'd fools! Yes, Honor decks the turf that wraps their clay! Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools, The broken tools, that tyrants cast away By myriads, when they dare to pave their way With human hearts-to what ?a dream alone. Can despots compass aught that hails their sway? Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?

Byron.

XVII.-THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
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 looked 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 ye not hear it ?-No; 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
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 opening 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 tones 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 roused 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 were 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 Roused 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 on 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 her pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath that fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers.
With the fierce native daring that instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years,

And Evan's, Donald's, fame rings in each clansman's ears!

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 low.

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!

Byron.

XVIII.-NAPOLEON'S REST.

HIS falchion waved along the Nile,
His host he led through Alpine snows;
O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while,
His eagle-flag unrolled-and froze!

Here sleeps he now alone!—not one
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave
Bends o'er his dust; nor wife nor son
Has even seen or sought his grave.

Behind the sea-girt rock, the star
That led him on from crown to crown,
Has sunk, and nations from afar
Gazed as it faded and went down.

High is his tomb: the ocean flood,
Far, far below, by storms is curled-
As round him heaved, while high he stood,
A stormy and unstable world.

Alone he sleeps: the mountain cloud,

That night hangs round him, and the breath

Of morning scatters, is the shroud

That wraps the conqueror's clay in death.

Pause here! The far-off world at last

Breathes free: the hand that shook its thrones, And to the earth its mitres cast,

Lies powerless now beneath these stones.

Hark! comes there from the Pyramids,
And from Siberia's wastes of snow,

And Europe's hills, a voice that bids

The world be awed to mourn him? No.

The only, the perpetual dirge,

That's heard here, is the sea-bird's cry— The mournful murmur of the surge,

The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh.

Pierpont.

CHAPTER VIII.

COMIC READINGS IN PROSE AND VERSE.

I. AN ORATOR'S FIRST SPEECH IN PARLIAMENT. THE virgin member takes his honoured place, while beams of modest wisdom light his face: multum in parvo in the man you see; he represents the people's majesty! Behold their choice! the pledged, 'midst many a cheer, to give free trade! free votes! free bread and beer! Blest times!--He sits at last within the walls of famed St. Stephen's venerated halls! O, shades of Pitt and Fox is he within the House of Commons? How his senses spin! Proud man; has he then caught the Speaker's eye? no, not just yet-but he will, by-and-by. I wonder if there are reporters here? In truth there are, and hard at work, don't fear. O happy man! By the next post shall reach your loved constituents, the maiden speech! THE PRESS (great tell-tale!) will to all reveal, how you have-spoken for your Country's weal! In gaping wonder will the words be read, "The new M.P., Lord Noodle, rose and said."

This pillar of "ten pounders " rises now, and towards the Speaker makes profoundest bow. Unused to so much honour, his weak knees bend with the weight of senate-dignities. He staggers-almost fails-staresstrokes his chin-clears out his throat, and ventures to begin. "Sir, I am sensible "-(some titter near him)— "I am, Sir, sensible "Hear! hear! hear! Hear him!" Now bolder grown, for praise mistaking pother, tea-pots one arm, and spouts out with the other. "I am, sir, sensible—I am, indeed-that, though-I should-want -words-I must proceed; and, for the first time in my