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"Haste-haste-ply swift and strong the oar!
Haste haste across the stream!"
Again Lord William heard a cry,
Like Edmund's dying scream!

"I heard a child's distressful scream,"
The boatman cried again.

"Nay, hasten on-the night is darkAnd we should search in vain."

"Oh God! Lord William, dost thou know
How dreadful 'tis to die?
And canst thou, without pity, hear
A child's expiring cry?

"How horrible it is to sink

Beneath the chilly stream:

To stretch the powerless arms in vain!
In vain for help to scream!"

The shriek again was heard: It came
More deep, more piercing loud.
That instant, o'er the flood, the moon
Shone through a broken cloud;

And near them they beheld a child;
Upon a crag he stood,

A little crag, and all around

Was spread the rising flood.

The boatman plied the oar, the boat
Approached his resting place;
The moonbeam shone upon the child,
And showed how pale his face.

"Now reach thy hand," the boatman cried,
"Lord William, reach and save!"
The child stretched forth his little hands,
To grasp the hand he gave.

Then William shrieked ;-the hand he touched
Was cold, and damp, and dead!

He felt young Edmund in his arms,
A heavier weight than lead!

"Help! help! for mercy, help," he cried,
"The waters round me flow."
"No-William-to an infant's cries
No mercy didst thou show."

The boat sunk down-the murderer sunk
Beneath the avenging stream;
He rose-he screamed-no human ear
Heard William's drowning scream.

WATERLOO.-Byron.

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 look'd 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 tone 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 and high the "Camerons' 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 that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers

With the fierce native daring, which 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!

THE ORPHANS.-Anonymous.

My chaise the village inn did gain,
Just as the setting sun's last ray
Tipped with refulgent gold the vane
Of the old church across the way.

Across the way I silent sped,
The time till supper to beguile

In moralising o'er the dead,

That mouldered round the ancient pile.

There many an humble green grave showed
Where want, and pain, and toil did rest,
And many a flattering stone I viewed
O'er those who once had wealth possessed.

A faded beech, its shadow brown,
Threw o'er a grave where sorrow slept,

On which, though scarce with grass o'ergrown,
Two ragged children sat and wept.

A piece of bread between them lay,
Which neither seemed inclined to take,
And yet they looked so much a prey
To want, it made my heart to ache.

"My little children, let me know
Why you in such distress appear,

And why you wasteful from you throw

That bread which many a one might cheer?"

The little boy in accents sweet

Replied, while tears each other chased

Oh, sir! we've not enough to eat,

Oh! if we had, we should not waste.

But sister Mary's naughty grown,
And will not eat, whate'er I say,
Though sure I am the bread's her own,
For she has tasted none to-day."

66 Indeed,"
," the wan starved Mary said,
Till Henry eats, I'll eat no more,
For yesterday I got some bread,
He's had none since the day before."
My heart did swell, my bosom heave,
I felt as though deprived of speech,
Silent I sat upon the grave,

And clasped the clay-cold hand of each.
With looks that told a tale of woe,
With looks that spoke a grateful heart,
The shivering boy then nearer drew,
And did his simple tale impart.
"Before my father went away,
Enticed by bad men o'er the sea,
Sister and I did nought but play-
We lived beside yon great ash-tree.
But then poor mother did so cry,
And looked so changed I cannot tell;
She told us that she soon should die,
And bade us love each other well.
She said that when the war was o'er,
Perhaps we might our father see,
But if we never saw him more,
That God our father then would be!
She kissed us both, and then she died,
And we no more a mother have;
Here many a day we've sat and cried,
Together at poor mother's grave.
But when my father came not here,
I thought, if we could find the sea,
We should be sure to meet him there,
And once again might happy be.
We hand in hand went many a mile,
And asked our way of all we met;
And some did sigh, and some did smile,
And we of some did victuals get.

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