THE FALL OF D'ASSAS.

ALONE through gloomy forest shades, a soldier went by night,

No moon-beam pierced the dusky glades, no star shed guiding light.

Yet, on his vigil's midnight round, the youth all cheerly passed;

Unchecked by aught of boding sound, that muttered in the blast.

Where were his thoughts that lonely hour?-In his far home, perchance

His father's hall-his mother's bower, 'midst the gay vines of France.

Hush! hark! did stealing steps go by? came not faint whispers near?

No! the wild wind hath many a sigh, amidst the foliage

sere.

Hark! yet again!—and from his hand, what grasp hath wrenched the blade?

O, single, 'midst a hostile band, young soldier, thou'rt betrayed!

"Silence!" in under-tones they cry; "No whisper--not a breath!

The sound that warns thy comrades nigh shall sentence thee to death!"

Still at the bayonet's point he stood, and strong to meet the blow;

And shouted, 'midst his rushing blood, "Arm!-arm!—Auvergne-the foe!"

The stir-the tramp-the bugle-call-he heard their tumults

grow;

And sent his dying voice through all-"Auvergne! Auvergne! the foe!" Mrs. Hemans.

THE DYING SOLDIER.

THE tumult of battle had ceased-high in air
The standard of Britain triumphantly waved;
And the remnant of foes had all fled in despair,
Whom, night intervening, from slaughter had saved;

When a veteran was seen, by the light of his lamp,
Slow-pacing the bounds of the carcass-strown plain,
Not base his intent,-for he quitted his camp

To comfort the dying, not plunder the slain.

Though dauntless in war, at a story of woe

Down his age-furrowed cheeks the warm tears often ran; Alike proud to conquer, or spare a brave foe,

He fought like a hero!-but felt like a man!

As he counted the slain,-"Ah, conquest !" he cried, "Thou art glorious, indeed, but how dearly thou'rt won!" "Too dearly, alas !" a voice faintly replied

It thrilled through his heart!-'twas the voice of his son!

He listened aghast!—all was silent again;

He searched by the beams which his lamp feebly shed,
And found his brave son amid hundreds of slain,
The corse of a comrade supporting his head.

"My Henry!" the sorrowful parent exclaimed,
"Has fate rudely withered thy laurels so soon?"
The youth oped his eyes, as he heard himself named,
And awoke for awhile from his death-boding swoon.

He gazed on his father, who knelt by his side,

And, seizing his hand, pressed it close to his heart; "Thank heaven! thou art here, my dear father!" he cried; "For scon, ah, too soon, we forever must part!

"Though death early calls me from all that I love, From glory, from thee, yet perhaps 'twill be given To meet thee again in yon regions above!"

His eyes beamed with hope, as he fixed them on heaven.

"Then let not thy bosom with vain sorrow swell;
Ah! check, ere it rises, the heart-rending sigh!
I fought for my king-for my country!-I fell
In defence of their rights and I glory to die!"

ODE FOR INDEPENDENCE.

WHEN Freedom, 'midst the battle storm,
Her weary head reclined,
And round her fair, majestic form,
Oppression fain had 'twined,
Amid the din beneath the cloud,

Great Washington appeared,
With daring hand rolled back the shroud,
And thus the sufferer cheered:

"Spurn, spurn despair! be great, be free!
With giant strength arise;
Stretch, stretch thy pinions, Liberty,
Thy flag plant in the skies!
Clothe, clothe thyself in Glory's robe,
Let stars thy banner gem;
Rule, rule the sea-possess the globe-
Wear Victory's diadem!

Go and proclaim a world is born,
Another orb gives light;
Another sun illumes the morn,
Another star the night;

Be just, be brave! and let thy name
Henceforth Columbia be;

And wear the oaken weath of fame,
The wreath of Liberty."

He said and lo! the stars of night
Forth to her banner flew;

And morn, with pencil dipp'd in light,
Her blushes on it drew;
Columbia's eagle seized the prize,

And, gloriously unfurled,
Soared with it to his native skies,
And waved it o'er the world.

BOADICEA.

WHEN the British warrior-queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage, beneath a spreading oak,
Sat the Druid, hoary chief,
Ev'ry 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 groundHark! the Gaul is at her gates!

"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,
Arm'd 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;
Rush'd to battle, fought, and died,-
Dying, hurled them on the foe!

"Ruffians! pitiless as proud,
Heav'n awards the vengeance due,
Empire is on us bestowed,

Shame and ruin wait for you!"

Cowper.

THE DYING ARCHER.

THE day has near ended, the light quivers through
The leaves of the forest, which bend with the dew;
The flowers bow in beauty, the smooth flowing stream,
Its gliding as softly as thoughts in a dream;

The low room is darkened, there breathes not a sound,
While friends in their sadness are gathering around;
Now out speaks the Archer, his course well nigh done,
"Throw, throw back the lattice, and let in the sun!"

The lattice is opened; and now the blue sky
Brings joy to his bosom, and fire to his eye;
There stretches the greenwood, where, year after year,
He "chased the wild roe-buck and followed the deer."
He gazed upon mountain, and forest, and dell,
Then bowed he in sorrow, a silent farewell:

"And when we are parted, and when thou art dead, Oh where shall we lay thee ?" his followers said.

Then up rose the Archer, and gazed once again
On far-reaching mountain, and river, and plain;
"Now bring me my quiver, and tighten my bow,
And let the winged arrow my sepulchre show!"
Out, out through the lattice, the arrow has passed,
And in the far forest has lighted at last,

And there shall the hunter in slumber be laid,

Where wild-deer are bounding beneath the green shade.

His last words are finished; his spirit has fled,
And now lies in silence the form of the dead;
The lamps in the chamber are flickering dim,
And sadly the mourners are chaunting their hymn;
And now to the greenwood, and now on the sod,
Where lighted the arrow, the mourners have trod;
And thus by the river, where dark forests wave,
That noble old Archer hath found him a grave!

R. C. Waterston.