A SONG OF THE CAMP.

BAYARD TAylor.

"GIVE us a song!" the soldiers cried,
The outer trenches guarding,
When the heated guns of the camps allied
Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,
Lay grim and threatening under;
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsmen said:

"We storm the forts to-morrow;

Sing while we may, another day
Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side.
Below the smoking cannon;

Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde
And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame,
Forgot was Britain's glory,

Each heart recalled a different name
But all sang "Annie Laurie."

Voice after voice caught up the song

Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem rich and strong-
Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,
But as the song grew louder,
Something upon the soldier's cheek
Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of Hell

Rained on the Russian quarters,

With scream of shot and burst of shell
And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim
For a singer dumb and gory;
And English Mary mourns for him.
Who sang of "Annie Laurie."

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest,
Your truth and valor wearing;

The bravest are the tenderest
The loving are the daring.

TO THE HOUSE OF LORDS.

EDMUND BURKE,

MY LORDS, your House yet stands; it stands, a great edifice; but, let me say, it stands in the midst of ruins

-in the midst of ruins that have been made by the greatest moral earthquake that ever convulsed and shattered this globe of ours. My Lords, it has pleased Providence to place us in that state, that we appear every moment to be on the verge of some great mutation. There is one thing, and one thing only that defies mutation that which existed before the world itself. I mean JUSTICE; that justice which, emanating from the Divinity, has a place in the breast of every one of us, given us for our guide with regard to ourselves and with regard to others, and which will stand after this globe is burned to ashes, our advocate or our accuser before the great Judge, when He comes to call upon us for the tenor of a well-spent life.

My Lords, the Commons will share in every fate with your Lordships. There is nothing sinister which can happen to you in which we are not involved. And if it should so happen that your Lordships, stripped of all the decorous distinctions of human society, should by hands at once base and cruel, be led to those scaffolds and machines of murder upon which great kings and glorious queens have shed their blood, amid the prelates, the nobles, the magistrates who supported their thrones, may you in those moments feel that consolation which I am persuaded they felt in the critical moments of their dreadful agony.

My Lords, if you must fall, may you so fall! But if you stand—and stand I trust you will, together with the fortunes of this ancient monarchy; together with the ancient laws and liberties of this great and illus

trious kingdom-may you stand as unimpeached in honor as in power! May you stand, not as a substitute for virtue; may you stand, and long stand, the terror of tyrants; may you stand, the refuge of afflicted nations; may you stand, a sacred temple for the perpetual residence of inviolable JUSTICE.

MARCO BOZZARIS.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

AT midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power.

In dreams, through camp and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring,

Then pressed that monarch's throne-a king;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band;
True as the steel to their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian thousands stood,

There had the glad earth drunk their blood,
On old Platea's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air,
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arms to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far, as they.

An hour passed on the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;
He woke to hear his sentry's shriek,

"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"
He woke to die 'midst flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast,
As lightnings from the mountain cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band:

"Strike till the last armed foe expires;
Strike-for your altars and your fires;
Strike-for the green graves of your sires;
God-and your native land!"

They fought-like brave men, long and well;
They piled that ground with Moslem slain;
They conquered - but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile, when rang their proud hurrah,

And the red field was won;

Then saw in death his eyelids close

Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.