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Now, pardon, pardon," cried the Childe; "I stabbed not, king, at thee,

But him, that caitiff, blood-defiled, who stood beside thy knee:

Eight brothers were we-in the land might none more loving be

They all are slain by Quadros' hand-they all are dead but

me.

Good king, I fain would wash the stain-for vengeance is my cry;

This murderer with sword and spear to battle I defy."
But all took part with Quadros, except one lovely May,—
Except the king's fair daughter, none word for him would
say.

She took their hands, she led them forth into the court

below;

She bade the ring be guarded, she bade the trumpet blow; From lofty place, for that stern race, the signal she did throw

"With truth and right the Lord will fight-together let

them go."

The one is up, the other down, the hunter's knife is bare;
It cuts the lace beneath the face, it cuts through beard and

hair;

Right soon that knife hath quenched his life-the head is sundered sheer ;

Then gladsome smiled the Avenging Childe, and fixed it on his spear.

But when the king beholds him bring that token of his truth, Nor scorn nor wrath his bosom hath-"Kneel down, thou noble youth;

Kneel down, kneel down, and kiss my crown, I am no more thy foe;

My daughter now may pay the vow she plighted long ago."

XIV.-BATTLE OF BUNKER'S HILL.

(COZZENS.)

This celebrated battle was fought between the revolted Americans and the English troops in 1775. The United States forces were nearly a thousand less in number than the British; but the fact that, though ultimately defeated and compelled to retreat, they yet maintained a doubtful struggle against superior numbers, is a matter of boast to the Americans to the present day. Mr. Cozzens is an American writer.

It was a starry night in June, the air was soft and still, When the "minute-men" from Cambridge came, and gathered on the hill;

Beneath us lay the sleeping town, around us frowned the fleet,

But the pulse of freemen, not of slaves, within our bosoms

beat;

And every heart rose high with hope, as fearlessly we said, "We will be numbered with the free, or numbered with the

dead!"

"Bring out the line to mark the trench, and stretch it on the sward!"

The trench is marked, the tools are brought, we utter not a

word,

But stack our guns, then fall to work with mattock and with spade,

A thousand men with sinewy arms, and not a sound is made; So still were we, the stars beneath, that scarce a whisper fell;

We heard the red-coat's musket click, and heard him cry, "All's well!" *

*

*

*

See how the morn is breaking! the red is in the sky:
The mist is creeping from the stream that floats in silence by;
The Lively's hull looms through the fog, and they our works
have spied,

For the ruddy flash and round-shot part in thunder from her side;

And the Falcon and the Cerberus make every bosom thrill, With gun and shell, and drum and bell, and boatswain's

whistle shrill;

But deep and wider grows the trench, as spade and mattock ply,

For we have to cope with fearful odds, and the time is drawing nigh!

Up with the pine-tree banner! Our gallant PRESCOTT stands

Amid the plunging shells and shot, and plants it with his hands;

Up with the shout! for PUTNAM comes upon his reeking bay, With bloody spur and foamy bit, in haste to join the fray; And POMEROY, with his snow-white hairs, and face all flush and sweat,

Unscathed by French and Indian, wears a youthful glory yet.

But thou whose soul is glowing in the summer of thy years, Unvanquishable WARREN, thou, the youngest of thy peers, Wert born and bred, and shaped and made, to act a patriot's part,

And dear to us thy presence is as heart's blood to the heart!

*

*

*

*

*

Hark! from the town a trumpet! The barges at the wharf Are crowded with the living freight; and now they're pushing

off:

With clash and glitter, trump and drum, in all its bright

array,

Behold the splendid sacrifice move slowly o'er the bay! And still and still the barges fill, and still across the deep, Like thunder-clouds along the sky, the hostile transports

sweep.

And now they're forming at the Point; and now the lines advance:

We see beneath the sultry sun their polished bayonets glance;

We hear a-near the throbbing drum, the bugle-challenge ring; Quick bursts and loud the flashing cloud, and rolls from wing to wing;

But on the height our bulwark stands, tremendous in its gloom,

As sullen as a tropic sky, and silent as a tomb.

And so we waited till we saw, at scarce ten rifles' length, The old vindictive Saxon spite, in all its stubborn strength; When sudden, flash on flash, around the jagged rampart burst

From every gun the livid light upon the foe accursed.

Then quailed a monarch's might before a free-born people's ire; Then drank the sward the veteran's life, where swept the yeoman's fire.

Then, staggered by the shot, we saw their serried columns reel,

And fall, as falls the bearded rye beneath the reaper's steel; And then arose a mighty shout that might have waked the dead

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'Hurrah! they run! the field is won! HURRAH! the foe is fled!"

And every man hath dropped his gun to clutch a neighbour's

hand,

As his heart kept praying all the while for home and native land.

Thrice on that day we stood the shock of thrice a thousand foes,

And thrice that day within our lines the shout of victory rose; And though our swift fire slackened then, and, reddening in the skies,

We saw from Charleston's roofs and walls the flamy columns rise,

Yet, while we had a cartridge left, we still maintained the

fight,

Nor gained the foe one foot of ground upon that bloodstained height.

What though for us no laurels bloom nor o'er the nameless brave

No sculptured trophy, scroll, nor hatch records a warrior grave!

What though the day to us was lost!--upon that deathless

page

The everlasting charter stands for every land and age!

For man hath broke his felon bonds, and cast them in the dust,

And claimed his heritage divine, and justified the trust; While through his rifted prison-bars the hues of freedom pour, O'er every nation, race, and clime, on every sea and shore, Such glories as the patriarch viewed, when, 'mid the darkest skies,

He saw above a ruined world the Bow of Promise rise.

XV.-BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST.

(DRUMMOND.)

On Belshazzar's Feast, see Prophecies of Daniel, chapter v. To the feast! to the feast!-'tis the monarch commands; Secure in her strength the proud Babylon stands,

As reckless of all the high vaunts of the foe,

As of the weak zephyrs around her that blow;

With her walls and her bulwarks all power she defies;
Like the cliffs of the mountain her turrets arise;
And swift through her ramparts, so deep and so wide,
Euphrates now rolls his unfordable tide.

Then on to the feast,-'tis the monarch commands;
Secure in her strength the proud Babylon stands!

With silver and gold are her treasuries stored,
And she smiles with disdain at the arrow and sword;
With the choicest of wheat all her granaries teem,
Her oil and her wine in broad rivulets stream;
For twenty long winters no famine she dreads,
For twenty long summers her banquet she spreads.
Then on to the feast,-'tis the monarch commands;
Secure in her strength the proud Babylon stands!

A thousand bright cressets the palace illume,
A thousand rich censers are wafting perfume;
The festival halls heaped with luxury shine,—
High piled are the cates, deep flows the red wine;
The fruits of a province the tables unfold,
The wealth of a kingdom there blazes in gold;