By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger 2 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 3 of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.

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

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 4
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.5

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! 6 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.

I Linden, or Hohenlinden, lies about twenty miles to the east of Munich.

2 Charger, war-horse.

8 Bolts of heaven, thunderbolts.

4 Where furious Frank, &c. This battle, of which Campbell was an eyewitness, was fought December 3,

Campbell.

1800, between the French, or Franks, and the combined Austrians and Bavarians, some of whom were Huns (Hungarians). The French were victorious. 5 Sulphurous canopy, clouds of gunpowder smoke.

6 Munich, capital of Bavaria,

DEATH OF LITTLE JIM,' THE COLLIER'S CHILD. 13

1 The Harper, or Minstrel, the poet and musician of ancient times, who traversed the country singing of love and war. He usually accompanied his songs with the harp or other instrument, and was everywhere an honoured guest. The introduction of printing rendered

such an occupation less necessary, and, in the reign of Elizabeth, those who practised it denounced as rogues, vagabonds, and beggars.

2 Wizard, enchanting.

3 Goblin, a mischievous spirit.
4 Throve, prospered.

were

DEATH OF LITTLE JIM,' THE COLLIER'S CHILD.

The cottage was a thatched one, its outside old and mean;
Yet everything within that cot was wondrous neat and clean;
The night was dark and stormy-the wind was blowing wild;
A patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her child—
A little, worn-out creature-his once-bright eyes grown dim :
It was a Collier's only child-they called him 'Little Jim.'

And oh! to see the briny tears fast flowing down her cheek, As she offered up a prayer in thought!-she was afraid to speak,

Lest she might waken one she loved far dearer than her life; For she had all a mother's heart, that wretched Collier's wife. With hands uplifted, see! she kneels beside the sufferer's bed, And prays that God will spare her boy, and take herself instead :

She gets her answer from the child-soft fall these words from him:

'Mother! the angels do so smile, and beckon Little Jim !

1

'I have no pain, dear mother, now; but, oh! I am so dry ;1 Just moisten poor Jim's lips once more; and, mother, do not cry!'

With gentle, trembling haste, she held a tea-cup to his lipsHe smiled to thank her-then he took three little tiny sips. 'Tell father, when he comes from work, I said "good-night!"

"

to him; And, mother, now I'll go to sleep.' . . Alas! poor little Jim! She saw that he was dying! The child she loved so dear Had uttered the last words she 'd ever wish to hear.

Would
ye learn the spell? A mother sat there;
And a sacred thing is that old Arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat, with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give ;
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,

With truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old Arm-chair.

I sat and watched her many a day,

When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on; but the last one sped-
My idol was shattered; my earth-star fled;
I learned how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old Arm-chair.
'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow :
'Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died;
And memory flows with lava 2 tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear

My soul from a mother's old Arm-chair.

1 Sainted, sacred.

2 Lava, burning. Lava is the molten substance which issues from the

Eliza Cook.

crater of a volcano during an eruption; the burning griefs of memory are likened to a stream of lava.

ADDRESS TO THE CUCKOO.

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of spring!
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,

And woods thy welcome sing.