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THE BATTLE HYMN.

(FROM THE GERMAN OF KÖRNER.)

Father of earth and heaven! I call thy name,
Round me the smoke and shout of battle roll;
Mine eyes are dazzled with the rushing flame;
Father, sustain an untried soldier's soul !

Or life or death whatever be the goal

That crowns or closes round this struggling hour; Thou know'st if ever from my spirit stole

One deeper prayer, 'twas that no cloud might lour On my young fame! O hear, God of eternal power! God thou art merciful!-the wintry storm,

The cloud that pours its thunder from its womb, But shew the sterner grandeur of thy form;

The lightnings glancing thro' the midnight gloom,
To faith's raised eye, as calm as lovely come,
As splendours of the autumnal evening star,
As roses shaken by the breezes plume,

When like cool incense comes the dewy air,
And on the golden wave the sunset burns afar.
God, thou art mighty!-at thy footstool bound
Lie gazing on thee, chance, and life, and death;
Nor in the angel-circle flaming round,

Nor in the million worlds that blaze beneath;
Is one that can withstand thy wrath's hot breath,
Woe in thy frown-in thy smile, victory!
Hear my last prayer! I ask no mortal wreath ;
Let but these eyes my country rescued see,
Then take my spirit, O Omnipotent to thee!
Now for the fight! now for the cannon peal!
Forward-thro' blood and toil, and cloud and fire!
Glorious the shout, the shock, the crash of steel,
The volley's roll, the rocket's blasting spire;
They shake like broken waves, the squares retire;
On them, Hussars! now give the rein and heel—
Think of the orphan'd child, the murder'd sire,

Each cries for blood,—in thunder on them wheel, This hour to Europe's fate shall set the triumph seal.

CRESCENTIUS.

Crescentius was Consul of Rome, A.D. 998; he made a rigorous attempt to deliver his native country from the tyranny of the Saxon Emperors, but having been induced to surrender through a promise of safety, he was most perfidiously executed.

I look'd upon his brow;-no sign
Of guilt or fear was there;

He stood as proud by that death-shrine,
As even o'er despair

He had a power; in his

eye

There was a quenchless energy,

A spirit that could dare

The deadliest form that Death could take,
And dare it for the daring's sake.

He stood, the fetters on his hand,—

He rais'd them haughtily;

And had that grasp been on the brand,
It could not wave on high

With freer pride than it waved now;
Around he look'd, with changeless brow,
On many a torture nigh,-

The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel,
And, worst of all, his own red steel.
I saw him once before; he rode
Upon a coal-black steed,

And tens of thousands throng'd the road,
And bade their warrior speed.

His helm, his breastplate were of gold,
And graved with many a dent, that told
Of many a soldier's deed;

The sun shone on his sparkling mail,
And danced his snow plume on the gale.
But now he stood; chain'd and alone,
The headsman by his side;
The plume, the helm, the charger gone;
The sword that had defied
The mightiest, lay broken near,
And yet no sign or sound of fear
Came from that lip of pride;
And never King or conqueror's brow
Wore higher look than his did now.

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke
With an uncover'd eye;

A wild shout from the numbers broke,
Who throng'd to see him die.
It was a people's loud acclaim,
The voice of anger and of shame,—
A nation's funeral cry,—
Rome's wail above her only son,
Her patriot, and her latest one.

MISS LANDON.

THE CURFEW.

"In the following extract, from the Rev. W. Bowles's 'Grave of the last Saxon,' Adela, the daughter of Harold, the last Saxon King of England, gives Edgar Atheling an account of an Expedition from Denmark, in which she accompanied her brothers, Godwin and Edmund, who wished to arouse the Saxon population of England to take arms to avenge the battle of Hastings.

"Foremost of the fleet

Our gallant vessel rode-around the mast

Emblazon'd shields were ranged-and plumed crests
Shook as the north-east rose-Upon the prow,
More ardent, Godwin, my brave brother, stood,
And milder Edmund, on whose mailed arm
I hung, when the white waves before us swell'd,
And parted. The broad banner, in full length,
Stream'd out its folds, on which the Saxon horse
Ramp'd, as impatient on the land to leap,
To which the winds still bore it bravely on;
Whilst the red cross, on the front banner, shone,
The hoar deep crimsoning.

Winds, bear us on-
Bear us as cheerly, till white Albion's cliffs
Resound to our triumphant shouts; till there,
On his own Tow'r, that frowns above the Thames,
Ev'n there we plant these banners and this cross,
And stamp the Conqueror and his Crown to dust!
They would have kept me on a foreign shore,
But could I leave my brothers? I with them
Grew up, with them I left my native land,
With them all perils have I braved, of sea,
Or war, all storms of hard adversity:
Let death betide, I reck not; all I ask,

K

Is yet, once more in this sad world, to kneel
Upon my Father's grave, and kiss the earth.-
When the morning gleam'd along the deep,

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England, Old England!' burst the general cry :
England, Old England!' Every eye intent,
Was turn'd; and Godwin pointed with his sword
To Flamborough, pale rising o'er the surge:
'Nearer into the kingdom's heart bear on

The death-storm of our vengeance!' Godwin cried.
Soon, like a cloud, the Northern Foreland rose-
Know ye those cliffs, tow'ring in giant state ?

But hark! along the shores alarum-bells

Ring out more loud-trump answers trump-the swords Of hurrying horsemen, and projected spears,

Flash to the sun-On yonder castle walls

A thousand bows are bent. Again, our course
Back to the north is turn'd. Now twilight veiled
The sinking sands of Yarmouth, and we heard
A long deep toll from many a village tow'r
On shore- and lo! the scatter'd in-land lights,
That sprinkled, winding ocean's lowly verge,
At once are lost in darkness- -God in Heaven,
It is the Curfew!' Godwin cried, and smote
His forehead. We all heard that sullen sound
For the first time, that night; but the winds blew
Our ship sail'd out of hearing; yet we thought
Of the poor mother, who on winter nights,
(When her belated husband from the wood
Was not come back,) her lonely taper lit,
And turn'd the glass, and saw the faggot-flame
Shine on the faces of her little ones-
Those times will ne'er return."

THE LAST MAN.

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself shall die,
Before this mortal shall assume
Its immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to weep,
Adown the gulph of Time!

I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime.

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight-the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;
In plague and famine some!
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb!

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood.
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm pass'd by ;

Saying, "We are twins in death, proud Sun,
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis mercy bids thee go;

For thou, ten thousand, thousand years,
Hast seen the tide of human tears

That shall no longer flow.

"What though beneath thee man put forth

His pomp, his pride, his skill;

And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,

The vassals of his will;

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway
Thou dim discrowned king of day:
For all those trophied arts

And triumphs that beneath thee sprang
Healed not a passion or a pang
Entail'd on human hearts.

"Go,-let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,

Nor with thy rising beams recall,
Life's tragedy again;

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