MONCONTOUR.

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For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised

the slave,

And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the

brave.

Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre! THOMAS B. MACAULAY.

Moncontour.-A Song of the Huguenots.

H! weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the hour When the children of darkness and evil had power; When the horsemen of Valois triumphantly trod

On the bosoms that bled for their rights and their God!

Oh! weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the slain,
Who for faith and for freedom lay slaughtered in vain!
Oh! weep for the living, who linger to bear
The renegade's shame, or the exile's despair!

One look, one last look, to the cots and the towers,
To the rows of our vines, and the beds of our flowers,
To the church where the bones of our fathers decayed,
Where we fondly had deemed that our own should be laid.

Alas! we must leave thee, dear desolate home,
To the spearman of Uri, the shavelings of Rome;
To the serpent of Florence, the vulture of Spain,
To the pride of Anjou, and the guile of Lorraine.

Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades,

To the songs of thy youths, and the dance of thy maids;
To the breath of thy gardens, the hum of thy bees,
And the long waving line of the blue Pyrenees !

Farewell, and forever!

The priest and the slave May rule in the halls of the free and the brave ;Our hearths we abandon ;-our lands we resign; But, Father, we kneel at no altar but thine!

-

THOMAS B. MACAULAY.

NOT

Burial of Sir John Moore.

OT a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sod with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And our lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin inclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him!

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him!

BOADICEA.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the bell tolled the hour for retiring, And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame, fresh and gory! We carved not a line, we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone with his glory!

CHARLES WOLFE.

W

Boadicea.

HEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,

Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Every burning word he spoke

Full of rage and full of grief.

"Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,

"Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

"Rome shall perish-write that word
In the blood that she has spilt ;-
Perish, hopeless and abhorred,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

"Rome, for empire far renowned,

Tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground-
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates

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"Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name;
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize;
Harmony the path to fame.

"Then the progeny that springs
From the forests of our land,
Armed with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.

"Regions Cæsar never knew
Thy posterity shall sway;
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.”

Such the Bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow:
Rushed to battle, fought, and died ;
Dying, hurled them at the foe.

"Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due ;

Empire is on us bestowed,

Shame and ruin wait for you."

WILLIAM COWPER.

Lochiel's Warning.

WIZARD.

LOCHIEL, Lochiel ! beware of the day

When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!

For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight.

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LOCHIEL'S WARNING,

They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ;
Woe, woe, to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?

'Tis thine, O Glenullin! whose bride shall await,
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate.
A steed comes at morning-no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led!
Oh weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead;
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave-
Culloden, that reeks with the blood of the brave!

LOCHIEL.

Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer!
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,

Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.

WIZARD.

Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth

From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the north?
Lo! the death-shot of foemen out-speeding, he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad;

But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!

Ah! home let him speed,—for the spoiler is nigh.

Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast?
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven.
O crested Lochiel! the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlements' height,
Heaven's fire is around thee to blast and to burn:
Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return!