SAINT CLOUD.

SOFT spread the southern Summer night

Her veil of darksome blue;

Ten thousand stars combined to light

The terrace of Saint Cloud.

The evening breezes gently sigh'd,

Like breath of lover true,

Bewailing the deserted pride

And wreck of sweet Saint Cloud.

The drum's deep roll was heard afar,

The bugle wildly blew

Good night to Hulan and Hussar,

That garrison Saint Cloud.

The startled Naiads from the shade

With broken urns withdrew,

And silenced was that proud cascade,

The glory of Saint Cloud.

We sate upon its steps of stone,

Nor could its silence rue,

When waked to music of our own,

The echoes of Saint Cloud.

Slow Seine might hear each lovely note

Fall light as summer-dew,

While through the moonless air they float,

Prolong'd from fair Saint Cloud.

And sure a melody more sweet

His waters never knew,

Though music's self was wont to meet

With Princes at Saint Cloud.

Nor then, with more delighted ear,

The circle round her drew,

Than ours, when gather'd round to hear
Our songstress at Saint Cloud.

Few happy hours poor mortals pass,—
Then give those hours their due,

And rank among the foremost class

Our evenings at Saint Cloud. PARIS, Sept. 5, 1815.

THE

FIELD OF WATERLOO;

A POEM.

Though Valois braved young Edward's gentle hand,
And Albret rush'd on Henry's way-worn band,
With Europe's chosen sons in arms renown'd,
Yet not on Vere's bold archers long they look'd,

Nor Audley's squires nor Mowbray's yeomen brook'd,—
They saw their standard fall, and left their monarch bound.

AKENSIDE.