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With ghastly wound, and broken brand,
A dying warrior lay.
To kneel her parting love beside,
And stay life's ebbing tide.
He lay beside the gushing spring,
That from its fount in freshness burst;
A drop to cool that thirst,
Fierce as the Simoom burning sigh ;
Its fiery agony.
E'en then on memory's wakeful eye
Would forms of children, wife, and friend, Fair as a vision of the sky,
In rainbow beauty blend-
And scenes he ne'er may see again,
Break o'er his dying brain.
While victory sends her deafening shout,
Through streets that madden with the din;
Then beauty droops within.
And sorrow's dreary vigil keeps ;
John Malcolm, Esg.
THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.
His sword and plume are on his pall,
The muffled drum beats drear and deep; And gathering tears are seen to fall,
From warriors' eyes unused to weep.
They lay him in his dreamless bed;
The banners droop above the brave ; The requiem of the glorious dead
Thrice rolls in thunder o'er his grave.
How sound his sleep-his battle's o'er,
Life's fitful fever passed away, Where sounds of war are heard no more,
And trump and drum are mute for aye.
While buried grandeur cannot buy
One mourner o'er its lonely bier, His name shall breathe in beauty's sighHis mem
emory brighten in her tear.
the festal train, The voice of reckless mirth to quell, And wake in music's melting strain,
Whose accents weep so wildly well.
But to the lone and widowed heart,
Can thoughts like this a balm instil ? Can glory's voice a charm impart
To lull—to soothe its cureless ill ?
They'll bid her try to think no more
On days and dreams for ever fled; They'll say that tears can ne'er restore
The loved the lost the silent dead. But when was sorrow known to woo
The themes that make its pangs the less ?
With cold and dull forgetfulness?
Or how should e'er the source of woe
Prove solace to the bosom's pain ?
John Malcolm, Esq.
ON SEEING, IN A LIST OF NEW MUSIC,
THE WATERLOO WALTZ.
A moment pause-ye British fair,
Awful was the victory!
Veiled in clouds the morning rose,
How unfit for courtly ball,
Shall scenes like these the dance inspire,
Other sounds- I ween were there,
Forbear-till time, with lenient hand,
When our rące has passed away,