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 "Cameron's 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

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.

D D

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.

TO A SKYLARK.

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

[PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, the son and heir of Sir Timothy Shelley, of Castle Goring, Sussex, was born at Field Place, in that county, on the 4th of August, 1792. He was educated first at Eton, and afterwards at Oxford. His violation of all rules, and his adoption of atheistical principles, led to his removal from the former, and his expulsion from the latter seat of learning. An imprudent marriage caused him to be cast off by his family. After the birth of two children he was separated from his wife, and went abroad. Shortly after his return to England, his wife committed suicide, which caused Shelley to be exposed to much obloquy and misrepresentation. He contracted a second marriage with the daughter of Mr. Godwin, the author of "Caleb Williams." On the 12th of March, 1818, he quitted this country, never to return. He went direct to Italy, where he renewed his acquaintance with Lord Byron. After some years of disease, intense study, and literary occupations, he was accidentally drowned in the Gulf of Lerici, on the 8th of July, 1822. In accordance with his own desire, his body, when recovered, was burnt on the sea-shore, and the ashes interred at Rome. Shelley was the author of " Prometheus," "Queen Mab," "Alastor," "Cenci, "An Ode to the Skylark," and other miscellaneous pieces.]

HAIL to thee, blithe spirit!

Bird thou never wert,

That from heaven, or near it,

Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher,

From the earth thou springest

Like a cloud of fire;

The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest,