There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell;—

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !

Did ye not hear it?-No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined!

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet--

But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! Arm! it is!-it is!-the cannon's opening roar!

Within a window'd niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear:
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell!

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;

S

And the deep thunder peal on peal afar,
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb,

Or whispering, with white lips-"The foe! they come, they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering' rose!
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers -
With their fierce native daring, which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years;

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving-if aught inanimate e'er grieves-
Over the unreturning brave,-alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure; when this fiery mass

Of living valour, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay;

The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms,—the day
Battle's magnificently-stern array

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover-heap'd and pent, Rider and horse,-friend, foe,-in one red burial blent!

Byron

The Smuggler

AND think ye now, ye sons of ease,
The smuggler's life is rough and rude;
'Mid bawling winds, and roaring seas,
He lives a man of cheerless mood?

Ye little guess how many a smile
To Fortune's rugged forin we owe!
Ye little guess, the son of toil

Knows sweeter ease than you can know!

Now, bless thee, girl! the wind is fair
And fresh, and may not long be so;
We've little time, you know, to spare;
So, gie's a buss, and let us go!"
The smuggler cries. A wight is he
Fit for his trade: so rough and rude,
He looks like--something of the sea--
He is not of the landsman's brood!
His stature's big; his hazel eye

Glistens beneath his bushy hair;
His face is of a sunny die,

His hands-his bosom, that is bare: His voice is hoarse, and sounding too: He has been wont to talk with winds And thunders, and the boisterous crew Of waves, whose moods he little minds His little, hardy infant son

Sits crowing on his lusty neck:
His wife a fair and tender one-
Murmurs and weeps upon his cheek:
He must not stay!--the treasures dear
He hurries from him with a sigh:
His rugged soul disdains a tear--
Not but he has one in his eye!

The sail is set, she clears the shore,
She feels the wind, and scuds away;
Heels on her little keel, and o'er

The jostling waves appears to play.
This is the smuggler's hardy crew:
The mate, his tall and strapping son;
Another active youth or two;

Besides an old and childless man,

Who many a storm and wreck had seen;
His head as hoary as the foam
Of the vex'd wave. He once had been
Another man!-had now no home,

Save what the ocean and the winds

Made for him-'twas a restless one!-
And they were harsh and wayward friends;
But every other friend was gone!

And now the cliff is seen no more:
Around is nought but sea and sky:
And now the smuggler ponders o'er
His fears and hopes alternately.

O Hope! thou little airy form,

Thou thing of nothing; subtlest thing
That deals in potent spell, or charm!
Queen of the little fairy ring,

That dances up and down the beam
Of the midnight moon, and loves to play
Such antics, by its witching gleam,
As scare or rap the sons of day!

When was the smile of human bliss

So fair as fiction'd forth by thee? Thy phantom gives a sweeter kiss

Than e'en the lover's fairest she! Illusion bless'd! how many a son Of rude and wayward destiny, Whom fortune never smiled upon,

Has yet been taught to smile by thee!

Now, with thy little golden wand,

Perch'd on the smuggler's helm, the wild And savage sea thou wouldst command, And make it merciful and mild:

But, 'tis a black and squally sky,

A restless, rough, and raging sea, Whose saucy waves thy power defy,

And make their moody mock of thee: Yet, nothing moved, thou keep'st thy place Beside the stern and hardy wight, Who looks thee cheerly in the face, And little apprehends thy flight;

Till, through the war of waves and winds, Regardless of their threatening roar, Thou guidest the smuggler, till he finds The port, and treads the sunny shore!

'The traffic's made, the treasure stow'd,
The wind is fair, the sail is spread;
And, labouring with her secret load,
Scarce heaves the little skiff her head.
Now is the smuggler's time of care:
A weary watch he keeps; nor night,
Nor day, he rests; nor those who share
The fortunes of the venturous wight.
A veering course they steer, to shun

The armed sail; and strive to reach
The nearest friendly land, and run

For some safe creek, or shelter'd beach; Which soon, at night, they near; and ther Laugh at their fears and perils o'er!— When, lo! the wary beacon's seen

To blaze! An enemy's ashore-
Down goes the helm, about the sheet-
The little bark obeys; and now,
To clear the fatal land, must beat
The heavy surge with labouring prow.
She weathers it, when, lo! a sail,

By the faint star-light gleam, they find
Has left the shore: as they can tell,
She is about a league behind,
In chase of them!-Along the shore-
The smuggler knows it well-there lies
A little creek, three leagues, or more,
And thither will he bear his prize.
Well sails the little skiff! but vain
Her efforts; every knot they run
The stranger draws on them amain—
She nears them more than half a one!

The smuggler thinks 'tis over now;
Thrice has he left the rudder, and
The fruitless dew from his sullen brow
Has dash'd with his indignant hand:
When lo!-and think you not there was
Some bright and pitying spirit there,

That hover'd o'er the smuggler, as
He gave his rudder to despair?-