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Oh! few shall part where many meet;
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall mark the soldier's sepulchre !

VI.-LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.-Campbel A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, Cries, Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound, To row us o'er the ferry.'

"Now, who be ye would cross Loch-Gyle,
This dark and stormy water?"
"O! I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle,

And this Lord Ullin's daughter.
"And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together;
For, should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover?"
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
I'll go, my chief-I'm ready:-

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It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady : "And, by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry;

So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And, in the scowl of heaven, each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer!
"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries;
"Though tempests round us gather,
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."-

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,-

When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her!

And still they rowed, amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore-
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade
His child he did discover:

One lovely arm she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,
"Across this stormy water:

And I'll forgive your Highland chief—
My daughter! oh, my daughter!"

"Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing;

The waters wild went o'er his child,-
And he was left lamenting.

VII. THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.-L. E. L. (Mrs. Maclean.)
THE muffled drum rolled on the air,
Warriors with stately step were there;
On every arm was the black crape bound,
Every carbine was turned to the ground:
Solemn the sound of their measured tread,
As silent and slow they followed the dead.
The riderless horse was led in the rear,
There were white plumes waving over the bier,
Helmet and sword were laid on the pall,
For it was a soldier's funeral.

That soldier had stood on the battle-plain,
Where every step was over the slain:

But the brand and the ball had passed him by,
And he came to his native land-to die!

"Twas hard to come to that native land,
And not clasp one familiar hand!

"Twas hard to be numbered amid the dead,

Or ere he could hear his welcome said!

But 'twas something to see its cliffs once more,
And to lay his bones on his own loved shore;
To think that the friends of his youth might weep
O'er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep.
The bugles ceased their wailing sound

As the coffin was lowered into the ground;
A volley was fired, a blessing said,

One moment's pause-and they left the dead!
I saw a poor and an aged man,

His step was feeble, his lip was wan;

He knelt him down on the new-raised mound,
His face was bowed on the cold damp ground:
He raised his head, his tears were done,-
The FATHER had prayed o'er his only son.

VIII.-CASABIANCA.-Mrs. Hemans.

THE boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but him had fled;
The flames, that lit the battle's wreck, shone round him-o'er the dead!
Yet beautiful and bright he stood, as born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood, a proud though childlike form!

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The flames rolled on-he would not go without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below, his voice no longer heard.
He called aloud:-"Say, father, say, if yet my task is done?"
He knew not that the Chieftain lay unconscious of his son.
'Speak, father!" once again he cried, "if I may yet be gone!"
But now the booming shots replied, and fast the flames rolled on:
Upon his brow he felt their breath, and in his waving hair;
And looked from that lone post of death, in still, but brave despair;
And shouted but once more aloud, "My father! must I stay?"
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, the wreathing fires made
way:

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, they caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child, like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder-sound;-the boy-O! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around with fragments strewed the sea!
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, that well had borne their part-
But the noblest thing that perished there, was that young faithful heart,

IX. THE DYING SOLDIER.-Anon.

THE tumult of battle had ceased-high in air
The standard of Britain triumphantly waved;
And the remnant of foes had all fled in despair,

Whom night, intervening, from slaughter had saved;
When a Veteran was seen, by the light of his lamp
Slow-pacing the bounds of the carcass-strown plain,
Not base his intent, for he quitted his camp
To comfort the dying, not plunder the slain.
Though dauntless in war, at a story of woe
Down his age-furrowed cheeks the warm tears often ran;
Alike proud to conquer, or spare a brave foe,

He fought like a hero!—but felt like a man!

As he counted the slain,-"Ah, conquest!" he cried,
"Thou art glorious indeed, but how dearly thou'rt won!"
"Too dearly, alas!" a voice faintly replied-

It thrilled through his heart!--'twas the voice of his son!

He listened aghast!-all was silent again;

He searched by the beams which his lamp feebly shed,
And found his brave son amid hundreds of slain,

The corse of a comrade supporting his head.

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My Henry!"-the sorrowful parent exclaimed,
"Has fate rudely withered thy laurels so soon?"
The youth oped his eyes as he heard himself named,
And awoke for a while from his death-boding swoon.
He gazed on his father, who knelt by his side,
And seizing his hand, pressed it close to his heart;

"Thank heaven! thou art here, my dear father!" he cried;
"For soon! ah, too soon, we for ever must part!
"Though death early calls me from all that I love,
From glory, from thee, yet perhaps 'twill be given
To meet thee again in yon regions above!"

His eyes beamed with hope as he fixed them on heaven.

"Then let not thy bosom with vain sorrow swell;
Ah! check, ere it rises, the heart-rending sigh!
I fought for my king--for my country!-I fell
In defence of their rights: and I glory to die!"

X-CRESCENTIUS.-L. E. L. (Mrs. Maclean.)
I LOOKED upon his brow;-no sign
Of guilt or fear was there;

He stood as proud by that death-shrine,
As even o'er despair

He had a power; in his eye

There was a quenchless energy-

A spirit that could dare

The deadliest form that death could take,
And dare it for the daring's sake.

He stood, the fetters on his hand-
He raised them haughtily;

And had that grasp been on the brand,
It could not wave on high

With freer pride than it waved now :
Around he looked, with changeless brow,
On many a torture nigh--

The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel,
And, worst of all, his own red steel!

I saw him once before; he rode

Upon a coal-black steed,

And tens of thousands thronged the road,
And bade their warrior speed.

His helm, his breast-plate, were of gold,
And graved with many a dent, that told
Of many a soldier's deed;

The sun shone on his sparkling mail,
And danced his snow-plume in the gale.

But now he stood, chained and alone;
The headsman by his side;

The plume, the helm, the charger gone;
The sword, that had defied
The mightiest, lay broken near;
And yet no sign or sound of fear
Came from that lip of pride:
And never king or conqueror's brow
Wore higher look, than his did now.

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke
With an uncovered eye;

A wild shout from the numbers broke,
That thronged to see him die.

It was a people's loud acclaim,
The voice of anger and of shame-
A nation's funeral cry;--
Rome's wail above her only son,
Her patriot-and her latest one!

II. THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM,—H. Kiria White.

WHEN marshalled on the nightly plain,

The glittering host bestud the sky,
One star alone, of all the train,

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.
Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,
From every host, from every gem;
But one alone the Saviour speaks
It is the Star of Bethlehem!

Once on the raging seas I rode;

The storm was loud-the night was dark-
The ocean yawned-and rudely blowed

The wind, that tossed my foundering bark.
Deep horror then my vitals froze-

Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem-
When, suddenly, a Star arose L

It was the Star of Bethlehem!

It was my guide-my light-my all!
It bade my dark forebodings cease;
And through the storm, and danger's thrall,
It led me to the port of peace.

Now, safely moored, my perils o'er,

I'll sing, first in night's diadem,

For ever, and for evermore,

The Star-the Star of Bethlehem!

XII. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.-Campbell.

OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpowered-
The weary to sleep, and the wounded-to die!
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice, ere the morning, I dreamt it again.
Methought, from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track;
"Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back!
I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed 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 pledged we the wine-cup; and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart :

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