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With ghastly wound, and broken brand,

A dying warrior lay.
No fond and faithful one was there

To kneel her parting love beside,
To staunch his death-wound with her hair,

And stay life's ebbing tide.

He lay beside the gushing spring,

That from its fount in freshness burst;
But helping hand was none to bring

A drop to cool that thirst,
Which scorches in the parting breath,

Fierce as the Simoom burning sigh ;
And adds to bitterness of death

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-
A dream of summer, love, and youth,

And scenes he ne'er may see again,
In all the glowing tints of truth

Break o'er his dying brain.

While victory sends her deafening shout,

Through streets that madden with the din;
And all is reckless mirth without,

Then beauty droops within.
She clasps her babes with sob and sigh,

And sorrow's dreary vigil keeps ;
Her orphans gaze, and wonder why
Their widowed mother weeps.

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.

'Twill steal

upon

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 ?
Or what have broken hearts to do

With cold and dull forgetfulness?

Or how should e'er the source of woe

Prove solace to the bosom's pain ?
The silent tear must ever flow,
Becausé, alas I it flows in vain.

John Malcolm, Esq.

ON SEEING, IN A LIST OF NEW MUSIC,

THE WATERLOO WALTZ.

A moment pause-ye British fair,
While pleasure's phantom ye pursue ;
And say—if sprightly dance-or air,
Suit with the name of Waterloo ?

Awful was the victory!
Chastened should the triumph be;
'Midst the laurels she has won,
Britain mourns for many a son !

Veiled in clouds the morning rose,
Nature seemed to mourn the day,
Which consigned, before its close,
Thousands to their kindred clay !

How unfit for courtly ball,
Or the giddy festival,
Was the grim, and ghastly view,
Ere evening closed on Waterloo !

Shall scenes like these the dance inspire,
Or wake the enlivening notes of mirth ?
Oh! shivered be the recreant lyre
That gave the base idea birth!

Other sounds- I ween were there,
Other music rent the air,
Other waltz-the warriors knew
When they closed on Waterloo !

Forbear-till time, with lenient hand,
Has soothed the pang of recent sorrow,
And let the picture distant stand,
The softening hue of years to borrow.

When our rące has passed away,
Hands unborn may wake the lay;

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