'There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to scale;
And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye fail ?'
Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier;
The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear,
And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire :-
Silence-hark to the signal-fire !

As the wolves, that headlong go
On the stately buffalo,

Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar,
And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore,

He tramples on earth, or tosses on high

The foremost, who rush on his strength but to die :
Thus against the wall they went,

Thus the first were backward bent;
Many a bosom, sheathed in brass,
Strew'd the earth like broken glass,
Shiver'd by the shot, that tore

The ground whereon they moved no more:
Even as they fell, in files they lay,

Like the mower's grass at the close of day,
When his work is done on the levell'd plain;
Such was the fall of the foremost slain.
As the spring-tides, with heavy plash,
From the cliffs invading dash

Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow,
Till white and thundering down they go,
Like the avalanche's snow

On the Alpine vales below;

Thus at length, outbreathed and worn,
Corinth's sons were downward borne

By the long and oft renew'd

Charge of the Moslem multitude.

In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell,
Heap'd by the host of the infidel,

Hand to hand, and foot to foot:

Nothing there, save death, was mute;
Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry
For quarter, or for victory,

Mingle there with the volleying thunder,

Which makes the distant cities wonder

How the sounding battle goes,
If with them, or for their foes;
If they must mourn, or may rejoice
In that annihilating voice,

Which pierces the deep hills through and through
With an echo dread and new.

From the point of encountering blades to the hilt,
Sabres and swords with blood were gilt;
But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun,
And all but the after carnage done.
Shriller shrieks now mingling come
From within the plunder'd dome :
Hark to the haste of flying feet,

That splash in the blood of the slippery street.

From within the neighbouring porch

Of a long defended church,

Where the last and desperate few
Would the failing fight renew,

The sharp shot dash'd Alp to the ground;

Ere an eye could view the wound

That crash'd through the brain of the infidel,

Round he spun, and down he fell;

A flash like fire within his

eyes

Blazed, as he bent no more to rise.

Still Minotti dares dispute
The latest portion of the land
Left beneath his high command;
With him, aiding heart and hand,
The remnant of his gallant band.
Still the church is tenable,

Whence issued late the fated ball
That half avenged the city's fall,
When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell :
Thither bending sternly back,
They leave before a bloody track;
And, with their faces to the foe,
Dealing wounds with every blow,

G

The chief, and his retreating train,
Join to those within the fane;
There they yet may breathe awhile,
Shelter'd by the massy pile.

The foe came on, and few remain
To strive, and those must strive in vain.

So near they came, the nearest stretch'd
To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd,
When old Minotti's hand

Touch'd with the torch the train-
'Tis fired!

Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain,

The turban'd victors, the Christian band,
All that of living or dead remain,

Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane,
In one wild roar expired!

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,-
But we left him alone with his glory.

Rev. C. Wolfe.

CHEVY CHASE.*

GOD prosper long our noble king,
Our lives and safeties all!

A woful hunting once there did
In Chevy Chase befall.

To drive the deer with hound and horn

Earl Percy took his

way;

The child may rue that is unborn

The hunting of that day.

The stout Earl of Northumberland
A vow to God did make,

His pleasure in the Scottish woods

Three summer days to take,—

Chevy Chase, a hunting-ground on the Cheviots. Lord

Percy was 'poaching.'

The chiefest harts in Chevy Chase
To kill and bear away.

These tidings to Earl Douglas came,
In Scotland, where he lay ;

Who sent Earl Percy present word
He would prevent his sport.
The English earl, not fearing this,
Did to the woods resort,

With fifteen hundred bowmen bold;
All chosen men of might,
Who knew full well, in time of need,
To aim their shafts aright.
The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran,
To chase the fallow deer:
On Monday they began to hunt,
When daylight did appear;

And long before high noon, they had
A hundred fat bucks slain;
Then, having dined, the drovers went
To rouse them up again.

Lord Percy to the quarry* went

To view the slaughter'd deer: Quoth he, 'Earl Douglas promised This day to meet me here:

"If that I thought he would not come,
No longer would I stay.'

With that, a brave young gentleman
Thus to the earl did say :

'Lo! yonder doth Earl Douglas come,
His men in armour bright;
Full twenty hundred Scottish spears
All marching in our sight,—

'All men of pleasant Tividale,

Fast by the river Tweed.'

'Then cease your sport,' Earl Percy said,

'And take

your bows with speed:

* Quarry, slaughtered game.