The fale'ner tossed his hawk away,
The hunter left the stag at bay;
Prompt at the signal of alarms,
Each son of Alpine rushed to arms;
So swept the tumult and affray
Along the margin of Achray.

Alas, thou lovely lake! that e'er

Thy banks should echo sounds of fear!
The rocks, the bosky thickets, sleep
So stilly on thy bosom deep,
The lark's blithe carol from the cloud
Seems for the scene too gayly loud.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

MARCH, MARCH, ETTRICK AND TEVIOTDALE.

MARCH, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale!

Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order? March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale !

All the Blue Bonnets are over the Border!

Many a banner spread

Flutters above your head,

Many a crest that is famous in story.

Mount and make ready, then,

Sons of the mountain glen,

Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory!

Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing; THE
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing;
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.

Trumpets are sounding;
War-steeds are bounding;

Stand to your arms, then, and march in good order,
England shall many a day
Tell of the bloody fray,
When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE.

Go where glory waits thee,
But, while fame elates thee,
O, still remember me!
When the praise thou meetest
To thine ear is sweetest,

O, then remember me!
Other arms may press thee,
Dearer friends caress thee,
All the joys that bless thee,

Sweeter far may be ;

But when friends are nearest,
And when joys are dearest,
O, then remember me !

When at eve thou rovest
By the star thou lovest,

O, then remember me!
Think, when home returning,
Bright we've seen it burning,
O, thus remember me!
Oft as summer closes,
On its lingering roses,

Once so loved by thee, Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them, O, then remember me!

When, around thee dying,
Autumn leaves are lying,

O, then remember me !
And, at night, when gazing
On the gay hearth blazing,

O, still remember me !
Then should music, stealing
All the soul of feeling,
To thy heart appealing,

Draw one tear from thee;
Then let memory bring thee
Strains I used to sing thee,

O, then remember me !

THOMAS MOORE (“ Irish Meladies").

BATTLE SONG OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS.

[Translation.]

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back

By Hasselt Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!

Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her;

We'll remember at Aix," - for one heard the quick wheeze

Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees,

And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh; 'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff;

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

"How they'll greet us!" and all in a moment his roan

Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;

And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight

Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,

With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,

And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,

Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,

Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet name, my horse with

out peer,

Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise, bad or good,

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is friends flocking round, As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;

track;

But Linden saw another sight
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
"To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainéd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

"T is morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE NOBLEMAN AND THE PENSIONER.

When her bruised eaglet breathes :

sweetly?

A beauty, by my soul !

A red clay flower-pot, rimmed with gold so neatly!

What ask you for the bowl?"

"O sir, that bowl for worlds I would not part with;

A brave man gave it me,

Touched to the quick, he said:

"I'm killed, sire!" And, his chief beside,

Smiling, the boy fell dead.

ROBERT BROWNING.

HOHENLINDEN.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

At Belgrade's victory.

"I'm a poor churl, as you may say, sir;

My pension 's all I'm worth:

Yet I'd not give that bowl away, sir,

For all the gold on earth.

THE SWORD SONG.

FROM THE GERMAN OF KÖRNER.

[Charles Theodore Körner was a young German soldier, scholar, poet, and patriot. He was born at Dresden in the autumn of 1791, and fell in battle for his country at the early

Hard on the foe's rear pressed,

A blundering rascal of a janizary

Shot through our captain's breast.

his pocket-book only two hours before he fell, during a halt in a wood previous to the engagement, and was read by him to a com rade just as the signal was given for battle. This bold song represents the soldier chiding his sword, which, under the image of his iron bride, is impatient to come forth from her chamber, the scabbard, and be wedded to him on the field of battle, where each soldier shall press the blade to his lips.

Körner fell in an engagement with superior numbers near a thicket in the neighborhood of Rosenburg. He had advanced in pursuit of the flying foe too far beyond his comrades. They buried him under an old oak on the site of the battle, and carved his name on the trunk.]

SWORD, on my left side gleaming,

What means thy bright eye's beaming?

It makes my spirit dance
To see thy friendly glance.
Hurrah!

"A valiant rider bears me;
A free-born German wears me :
That makes my eye so bright;
That is the sword's delight."
Hurrah!

Yes, good sword, I am free,
And love thee heartily,
And clasp thee to my side,
E'en as a plighted bride.
Hurrah!

"And I to thee, by Heaven,
My light steel life have given ;
When shall the knot be tied?
When wilt thou take thy bride?"
Hurrah!

The trumpet's solemn warning Shall hail the bridal morning. When cannon-thunders wake Then my true-love I take. Hurrah!

"O blessed, blessed meeting! My heart is wildly beating: Come, bridegroom, come for me; My garland waiteth thee." Hurrah!

Why in the scabbard rattle,
So wild, so fierce for battle?
What means this restless glow?
My sword, why clatter so?
Hurrah!

Well may thy prisoner rattle; My spirit yearns for battle.

THE TURKISH CAMP.

BEFORE CORINTH.

'Tis midnight on the mountains brown
The cold round moon shines deeply down;
Blue roll the waters, blue the sky
Spreads like an ocean hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light,
So wildly, spiritually bright;
Who ever gazed upon them shining,
And turned to earth without repining,
Nor wished for wings to flee away,
And mix with their eternal ray?
The waves on either shore lay there,
Calm, clear, and azure as the air :
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook,
But murmured meekly as the brook.
The winds were pillowed on the waves;
The banners drooped along their staves,
And, as they fell around them furling,
Above them shone the crescent curling;
And that deep silence was unbroke,
Save where the watch his signal spoke,
Save where the steed neighed oft and shrill,
And echo answered from the hill,
And the wide hum of that wild host
Rustled like leaves from coast to coast,
As rose the Muezzin's voice in air
In midnight call to wonted prayer;
It rose,
that chanted mournful strain,
Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain :
'T was musical, but sadly sweet,

Such as when winds and harp-strings meet,
And take a long unmeasured tone,

To mortal minstrelsy unknown.
It seemed to those within the wall
A cry prophetic of their fall:
It struck even the besieger's ear
With something ominous and drear,
An undefined and sudden thrill,
Which makes the heart a moment still,
Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed
Of that strange sense its silence framed ;
Such as a sudden passing-bell

Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell.