"Why comes not Marshal Blucher down? Ha! - there's his cannons' roar,

"Up, guards, and at them! charge!"—the word Like forked lightning passes,

And lance, and bayonet, and sword

Rush on in glittering masses!
Back, back, the surging columns roll
In terrified dismay,

And onward shout against the rout
The conquerors of the day!

O now, the tide of battle

Is turn'd to seas of blood,
When case and grape shot rattle
Among the multitude,

And Fates, led on by Furies,
Destroy the flying host,

And Chaos, mated with Despair,
Makes all the lost most lost!

Woe, woe! thou catiff-hero,

Thou Emperor and slave,
Why didst not thou, too, nobly bleed
With those devoted brave?

No, no, the coward's thought was self,
And " sauve qui peut" his cry,

And verily at Waterloo

Did Great Napoleon die!

And died to fame, while yet his name
Was on ten thousand tongues
That trusted him, and pray'd to him,
And-curs'd him for their wrongs!

O noble souls! Imperial Guard,
Had your chief been but true,

Ye would have stood and stopp'd the rout
At crushing Waterloo.

Still as they fled from Wellington
To Blucher's arms they flew ;
These two made up the Quatre Bras
To clutch a Waterloo!

Ha! Blucher's Prussian vengeance

Was fully sated then,

When hated France upon the field
Left forty thousand men.

Thus, comrades, hath a soldier told
What Wellington's calm skill,
When help'd by troops of British mould
And God's almighty will,

Against a veteran triple force

In battle-field can do:

Then, three times three for Wellington,

The Prince of Waterloo !

“ARE YOU A GREAT READER?”

I HOPE to ripen into richer wine

Than mixed Falernian; those decantered streams

Pour'd from another's chalice into thine

Make less of wisdom than the scholar dreams;

Precept on precept, tedious line on line,
That never-thinking, ever-reading plan

Fashion some patchwork garments for a man,
But starve his mind: it starves of too much meat,
An undigested surfeit; as for me

I am untamed, a spirit free and fleet

That cannot brook the studious yoke, nor be
Like some dull grazing ox without a soul,
But feeling racer's shoes upon my feet,
Before my teacher starts, I touch the goal.

THE VERDICT.

I LEAVE all judgments to that better world

And my more righteous Judge: for He shall tell In the dread day when from their thrones are hurl'd Each human tyranny and earthly spell,

That which alone of all He knoweth wellThe heart's own secret; He shall tell it out With all the feelings and the sorrows there, The fears within, the foes that hemm'd without, Neglect, and wrong, and calumny and care: For He hath saved thine every tearful pray'r In His own lachrymal; and noted down

Each unconsidered grief with tenderest love: Look up! beyond the cross behold the crown, And for all wrongs below all rights above!

GUERNSEY.

GUERNSEY! to me and in my partial eyes
Thou art a holy and enchanted isle,

Where I would linger long, and muse the while Of ancient thoughts and solemn memories,

Quickening the tender tear or pensive smile: Guernsey! - for nearly thrice a hundred years Home of my fathers! refuge from their fears, And haven to their hope, when long of yore Fleeing Imperial Charles and bloody Rome.

Protestant martyrs, to thy seagirt shore They came to seek a temple and a home,

And found thee generous, I their son would pour My heart full all of praise and thanks to thee, Island of welcomes, — friendly, frank, and free!

ALL'S RIGHT.

FOR MUSIC.

O NEVER despair at the troubles of life,
All's right!

In the midst of anxiety, peril, and strife,
All's right!

The cheerful philosophy never was wrong

That ever puts this on the tip of my tongue
And makes it my glory, my strength, and my song,
All's right!

The Pilot beside us is steering us still,

All's right!

The Champion above us is guarding from ill,

All's right!

Let others who know neither Father nor Friend
Go trembling and doubting in fear to the end, –
For me, on this motto I gladly depend,

All's right!

THE COMPLAINT OF AN ANCIENT BRITON

DISINTERRED BY ARCHÆOLOGISTS.

Two thousand years agone

They heaped my battle grave,

And each a tear and each a stone,

My mourning warriors gave;

For I had borne me well,

And fought as patriots fight,

Till, like a British chief, I fell

Contending for the right.

Seamed with many a wound,
All weakly did I lie;

My foes were dead or dying round, -
And thus I joyed to die!
For their marauding crew

Came treacherously to kill,
The many came against the few
To storm our sacred hill.

We battled and bled,

We won, and paid the price,

For I, the chief, lay down with the dead, A willing sacrifice!

My liegemen wailed me long,

And treasured up my bones,

And reared my kist secure and strong

With tributary stones:

High on the breezy down

My native hill's own breast

Nigh to the din of mine ancient town,

They left me to my rest.

I hoped for peace and calm

Until my judgment hour,

And then to awake for the victor's palm

And patriot's throne of power!

And lo, till this dark day

Did men my grave revere:

Two thousand years had passed away,

And still I slumbered here:

But now, there broke a noise

Upon my silent home,

'Twas not the Resurrection voice

That burst my turfy tomb,

But men of prying mind,

Alas, my fellow men,

Ravage my grave, my bones to find

With sacreligious ken!

Mine honor doth abjure

Your new barbarian race;

Restore, restore my bones secure