The BATTLE of PULTOWA.

On Vorskas glittering waves
The morning sun-beams play;
PULTOWA'S walls are throng'd
With eager multitudes;
Athwart the dusty vale

They strain their aching eyes,

Where to the fight moves on

The Conqueror Charles, the iron-hearted Swede.

Him Famine hath not tamed

The tamer of the brave;

Him Winter hath not quell'd,

When man by man his veteran troops sunk down,

Frozen to their endless sleep,

He held undaunted on;

Him Pain hath not subdued,

What tho' he mounts not now
The fiery steed of war,
Borne on a litter to the fight he goes.

Go iron-hearted King!

Full of thy former fame.

Think how the humbled Dane
Crouch'd to thy victor sword;
Think how the wretched Pole
Resign'd his conquer'd crown;
Go iron-hearted King!

Let Narva's glory swell thy haughty breast, ..
The death-day of thy glory Charles, hath dawn'd;
Proud Swede, the Sun hath risen
That on thy shame shall set!

Now bend thine head from heaven,

Now Patkul be revenged!

For o'er that bloody Swede
Ruin hath rais'd his arm;
For ere the night descends,

His veteran host subdued,

His laurels blasted to revive no more,

He flies before the foe!

Long years of hope deceived
That conquered Swede must prove;
Patkul thou art avenged!

Long years of idleness

That restless soul must bear ;

Patkul thou art avenged!

The Despot's savage anger took thy life, Thy death has stabb'd his fame.

The DEATH of WALLACE.

Joy, joy in London now!

He goes, the rebel Wallace goes to death,
At length the traitor meets the traitor's doom,
Joy, joy in London now!

He on a sledge is drawn,

His strong right arm unweapon'd and in chains,
And garlanded around his helmless head
The laurel wreath of scorn.

They throng to view him now

Who in the field had fled before his sword, Who at the name of Wallace once grew pale

And faltered out a prayer.

Yes they can meet his eye,

That only beams with patient courage now;
Yes they can gaze upon those manly limbs
Defenceless now and bound.

And that eye did not shrink
As he beheld the pomp of infamy;
Nor did one rebel feeling shake those limbs
When the last moment came.

What tho' suspended sense Was by their damned cruelty revived, What tho' ingenious vengeance lengthened life To feel protracted death;

What tho' the hangman's hand

Graspt in his living breast the heaving heart,.. In the last agony, the last sick pang,

Wallace had comfort still.

He called to mind his deeds

Done for his country in the embattled field;
He thought of that good cause for which he died
And that was joy in death!