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Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb;

They were too busy to bark at him!

From a Tartar's skull they had stripped the flesh,

As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ;

And their white tusks crunched o'er the whiter skull,

As it slipped through their jaws when their edge grew dull, As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead,

When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed ; So well had they broken a lingering fast

With those who had fallen for that night's repast.

And Alp knew, by the turbans that rolled on the sand,
The foremost of these were the best of his band.

The scalps were in the wild dog's maw,

The hair was tangled round his jaw.

But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf,
There sat a vulture flapping a wolf,

Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away,
Scared by the dogs, from the human prey;
But he seized on his share of a steed that lay,
Picked by the birds on the sands of the bay!

Alp turned him from the sickening sight:
Never had shaken his nerves in fight;

But he better could brook to behold the dying,
Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying,

Scorched with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain,
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain.
There is something of pride in the perilous hour,
Whate'er be the shape in which death may lower;
For Fame is there to say who bleeds,

And Honour's eye on daring deeds!

But when all is past, it is humbling to tread
O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead,

And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air,
Beasts of the forest, all gathering there;

All regarding man as their prey,

All rejoicing in his decay!

BYRON.

6.-LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, “ Boatman, do not tarry!
“And I'll give thee a silver pound,
66 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, "6 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 :It is not for your silver bright, "But for your winsome lady:

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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 hand 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

CAMPBELL.

7. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell-shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone

But we left him alone with his glory.

WOLFE.

8. THE MARINER'S DREAM.

In slumbers of midnight the Sailor boy lay,

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,

And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.

He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn;
While Memory stood side-ways, half-covered with flowers,
And restored every rose, but secreted the thorn.

Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise;
Now, far, far behind him the green waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,
And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall;
All trembling with transport he raises the latch,
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight,

His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear; And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,
Joy quickens his pulse-all his hardships seem o'er;
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest—
"O God! thou hast blest me, I ask for no more.'

Ah! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye?
Ah! what is that sound that now larums his ear?
'Tis the lightning's red glare painting hell on the sky!
'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere !

He springs from his hammock-he flies to the deck;
Amazement confronts him with images dire ;-
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck,
The masts fly in splinters—the shrouds are on fire!
Like mountains the billows tumultuously swell,

In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save ;-
Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,

And the Death-Angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave.

Oh, Sailor boy! wo to thy dream of delight!

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss ;Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright, Thy parent's fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss? Oh! Sailor boy! Sailor boy! never again

Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay; Unblessed and unhonoured, down deep in the main Full many a score fathom thy frame shall decay. No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge; But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge. On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid, Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow; Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made, And every part suit to thy mansion below.

Days, months, years, and

ages,

shall circle away, And still the vast waters above thee shall roll; Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye—

Oh, Sailor boy! Sailor boy! peace to thy soul!

9.-MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN.

DIMOND.

WHO is she, the poor Maniac, whose wildly-fixed eyes
Seem a heart overcharged to express?

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs;
She never complains, but her silence implies
The composure of settled distress.

No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek,
Cold and hunger awake not her care;

Through her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak
On her poor withered bosom, half bare, and her cheek
Has the deadly pale hue of despair.

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