twice wounded, was made a lieutenant. He was killed in a skirmish with the French at Mecklenburg, August 26th, 1813. His lyrical poems were published after his death under the appropriate title of "The Lyre and the Sword," and his dramas, poems, and literary remains have since been published in Germany.]

THOU Sword upon my belted vest,

What means thy glittering polished crest?
Thou seem'st within my glowing breast
To raise a flame-Hurrah!

"A horseman brave supports my blade,
The weapon of a freeman made;
For him I shine, for him I'll wade

Through blood and death-Hurrah!"

Yes, my good sword, behold me free,
I fond affection bear to thee,

As though thou wert betrothed to me,
My earliest bride—Hurrah!

"Soldier of Fortune, I am thine,
For thee alone my blade shall shine-
When, Soldier, shall I call thee mine,
Joined in the field-Hurrah!"

Soon as our bridal morn shall rise,
While the shrill trumpet's summons flies,
And the red cannon rends the skies,
We'll join our hands-Hurrah!

"O sacred union!-haste away,

Ye tardy moments of delay

I long, my bridegroom, for the day
To be thy bride-Hurrah!"

Why cling'st thou in the scabbard-why?

Thou iron fair of destiny,

So wild-so fond of battle-cry,

Why cling'st thou so ?-Hurrah!

"I hold myself in dread reserve,
Fierce-fond in battle-fields to serve,
The cause of freedom to preserve--
For this I wait-Hurrah!"

Rest-still in narrow compass rest-
Ere a long space thou shalt be blest,
Within my ardent grasp comprest-
Ready for fight-Hurrah!

"Oh let me not too long await-
I love the gory field of fate,

Where death's rich roses grow elate

In bloody bloom-Hurrah!"

Come forth! quick from thy scabbard fly,
Thou pleasure of the Soldier's eye-
Now to the scene of slaughter hie,

Thy native home-Hurrah!

"O glorious thus in nuptial tie,
To join beneath heaven's canopy-
Bright as a sunbeam of the sky,

Glitters your bride-Hurrah!"

Then out, thou messenger of strife,
Thou German soldier's plighted wife-
Who feels not renovated life

When clasping thee ?-Hurrah!

When in thy scabbard on my side,
I seldom glanced on thee, my bride;
Now Heaven has bid us ne'er divide,
For ever joined-Hurrah!

Thee glowing to my lips I'll press,
And all my ardent vows confess-
O cursed be he, without redress,

Who thee forsakes!- Hurrah!

Let joy sit in thy polished eyes,
While radiant sparkles flashing rise-
Our marriage-day dawns in the skies,
My Bride of Steel-Hurrah!

CHILDE HAROLD'S FAREWELL.
LORD BYRON.
[See page 205.]

"ADIEU, adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;

The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native land-good night!

"A few short hours and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;

And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weedsare gathering on the wall; My dog howls at the gate.

“Come hither, hither, my little page!
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,
Or tremble at the gale?

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;
Our ship is swift and strong:

Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
More merrily along."

"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

I fear not wave nor wind:

Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

Am sorrowful in mind;

For I have from my father gone,
A mother whom I love,

And have no friend, save these alone,
But thee-and One above.

"My father bless'd me fervently,
Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again.”
Enough, enough, my little lad,
Such tears become thine eye;
If I thy guileless bosom had,

66

Mine own would not be dry.

"Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman
Why dost thou look so pale?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman ?
Or shiver at the gale ?"

"Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?
"Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
But thinking on an absent wife
Will blanch a faithful cheek.

"My spouse and boys dwell near thy hal' Along the bordering lake,

And when they on their father call,
What answer shall she make ?"
"Enough, enough, my yeoman good,

Thy grief let none gainsay;

But I, who am of lighter mood, 'Will laugh to flee away.

"With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;

Nor care what land thou bears't me to,
So not again to mine.

Welcome, welcome,

ᎩᎾ dark blue waves!

And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves! My native land! good night!"

THE DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN.

A. A. WATTS.

My sweet one, my sweet one, the tears were in my eyes
When first I clasped thee to my heart, and heard thy feeble cries;
For I thought of all that I had torne as I bent me down to kiss
Thy cherry lips and sunny brow, my first-born bud of bliss!

I turned to many a withered hope, to years of grief and pain,
And the cruel wrongs of a bitter world flashed o'er my boding brain;
I thought of friends, grown worse than cold-of persecuting foes,
And I asked of heaven if ills like these must mar thy youth's repose.

I gazed upon thy quiet face, half-blinded by my tears,

Till gleams of bliss, unfelt before, came brightening on my fears; Sweet rays of hope that fairer shone 'mid the clouds of gloom that bound them,

As stars dart down their loveliest light when midnight skies are round them.

My sweet one, my sweet one, thy life's brief hour is o'er,

And a father's anxious fears for thee can fever thee no more!
And for the hopes, the sun-bright hopes, that blossomed at thy birth,
They, too, have fled, to prove how frail are cherished things of
earth!

'Tis true that thou wert young, my child; but though brief thy span below,

To me it was a little age of agony and woe;

For, from thy first faint dawn of life, thy cheek began to fade, And my lips had scarce thy welcome breathed, ere my hopes were wrapt in shade.

Oh! the child in its hours of health and bloom, that is dear as thou wert then,

Grows far more prized, more fondly loved, in sickness and in pain!
And thus 'twas thine to prove, dear babe, when every hope was lost,
Ten times more precious to my soul, for all that thou hadst cost!

Cradled in thy fair mother's arms, we watched thee day by day,
Pale like the second bow of heaven, as gently waste away;
And, sick with dark foreboding fears, we dared not breathe aloud,
Sat, hand in hand, in speechless grief, to wait death's coming cloud
It came at length: o'er thy bright blue eye the film was gathering
fast,

And an awful shade passed o'er thy brow, the deepest and the last:
In thicker gushes strove thy breath-we raised thy drooping head:
A moment more--the final pang-and thou wert of the dead!

૨.

Thy gentle mother turned away to hide her face from me,
And murmured low of heaven's behests, and bliss attained by thee;
She would have chid me that I mourned a doom so blest as thine,
Had not her own deep grief burst forth in tears as wild as mine!

We laid thee down in thy sinless rest, and from thine infant brow
Culled one soft lock of radiant hair, our only solace now:
Then placed around thy beauteous corse flowers, not more fair and

sweet

Twin rosebuds in thy little hands, and jasmine at thy feet.

Though other offspring still be ours, as fair perchance as thou,
With all the beauty cf thy cheek, the sunshine of thy brow,
They never can replace the bud our early fondness nurst :
They may be lovely and beloved, but not like thee, the first!

The first! How many a memory bright that one sweet word can bring,
Of hopes that blossom'd, droop'd, and died, in life's delight fulspring-
Of fervid feelings passed away-those early seeds of bliss
That germinate in hearts unseared by such a world as this!

My sweet one, my sweet one, my fairest and my first!

When I think of what thou mightst have been, my heart is like to burst;

But gleams of gladness through my gloom their soothing radiance dart,

And my sighs are hushed, my tears are dried, when I turn to what thou art!

Pure as the snow-flake ere it falls and takes the stain of earth,
With not a taint of mortal life, except thy mortal birth,
God bade thee early taste the spring for which so many thirst,
And bliss, eternal bliss is thine, my fairest and my first!

THE ALMA.

THE RIGHT REV. RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH, D.D.,
LATE ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN.

[The late Archbishop of Dublin, Dr. Richard Chenevix Trench, was the author of Justin Martyr and other Poems," a work which, beyond the Christian piety inculcated in its pages, is marked by strong poetic power and command of versification. When Dean of Westminster, Dr. Trench afforded valuable aid to the cause of education by lecturing to the members of various literary institutions on "The Study of Words," and the language of our Saxon ancestors. His works on this subject abound with curious and instructive information. Born, 1807; died, 1886.]

THOUGH till now ungraced in story, scant although thy waters be, Alma, roll those waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea: Yesterday, unnamed, unhonoured, but to wandering Tartar knownNow thou art a voice for ever, to the world's four corners blown.