all over in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart-Liberty and union, now and for ever, one and inseparable! IX. The Field of Waterloo.-BYRON. STOP!-for thy tread is on an empire's dust! There was a sound of revelry by night, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, Did ye not hear it?-No; 'twas but the wind, On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feetBut hark!-that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is!-it is!-the cannon's opening roar ! Within a windowed niche of that high hall And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear: near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell! Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise? And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed, And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose! The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent Rider and horse,-friend, foe-in one red burial blent! X. Outalissi's Death Song.-CAMPBELL. "And I could weep"-the Oneida chief For by my wrongs and by my wrath! That fires yon heaven with storms of death, And we shall share, my Christian boy, "But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heaven Forbid not thee to weep: Nor will the Christian host, Nor will thy father's spirit grieve, "To-morrow let us do or die !- The hand is gone that cropped its flowers! Cold is the hearth within their bowers! Would sound like voices from the dead! "Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nations quaffed, And by my side, in battle true, A thousand warriors drew the shaft? The desert serpent dwells alone, Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones, themselves to ruin grown, Like me, are death-like old! Then seek we not their camp-for there- "But hark, the trump!-to-morrow thou Because I may not stain with grief XI. Marco Bozzaris.-HALLECK. At midnight, in his guarded tent, |