Unless, like he of Babylon,
All sense is with thy scepter gone,
Life will not long confine

That spirit pour'd so widely forth,
So long obey'd-so little worth!

Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,
Wilt thou withstand the shock?
And share with him the unforgiven,
His vulture and his rock!

Foredoom'd by God--by man accurst.
And that last act, though not thy worst,
The very Fiend's arch mock:

He in his fall preserved his pride.
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died.

There was a day-there was an hour, While earth was Gaul's--Gaul's thineWhen that immeasurable power,

Unsated to resign,

Had been an act of purer fame,
Than gathers round Marengo's name,
And gilded thy decline,

Through the long twilight of all time,
Despite some passing clouds of crime.

But thou, forsooth, must be a king,
And don the purple vest,

As if that foolish robe could wring
Remembrance from thy breast.
Where is the faded garment? where
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear,
The star-the string-the crest ?,
Vain froward child of empire! say,
Are all thy playthings snatch'd away?

Where may the wearied eye repose,
When gazing on the Great;
Where neither guilty glory glows,
Nor despicable state?

Yes-one-the first-the last-the best-
The Cincinnatus of the West,

Whom envy dared not hate,

Bequeath the name of Washington,
To make man blush there was but one!

THE FATAL FIELD.

BYRON.

[The most famous readers have delighted in reciting this magnificent description of the field of Warterloo; and the great truths so powerfully enunciated by the poet, on the instability of power, when built upon any foundation less stable than the happiness of the people. This piece is full of round, sonorous sentences, like the swell of the mighty ocean thundering on the rocky shore, and should be spoken with a grand, imposing voice, gesture and action.]

Stop!-for thy tread is on an Empire's dust!
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust?
Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
None: but the moral's truth tells simpler so.
As the ground was before, thus let it be;
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee,
Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?

And Harold stands upon this place of skulls,
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo!
How in an hour the power which gave annuls
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too;
In pride of place "here last the eagle flew,
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain,
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through;
Ambition's life and labors all were vain;

He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken chain.

Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit
And foam in fetters; but is earth more free
Did nations combat to make One submit;
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty?
What shall reviving Thraldom again be
The patch'd-up idol of enlighten'd days?
Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we
Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze

And servile knees to thrones? No; prove before ye praise!

If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more!
In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before
The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears,
Have all been borne, and broken by the accord
Of roused-apillions: all that most endears
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword
Such as armodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord.
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage-bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it ?-No; 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;

On with the dance let joy be unconfined,

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet

To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet

But, 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 window'd niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,

And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretch his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distres:
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blush'd 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 would guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb,

Or whispering with white lips-The foe! They come! they come!

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

Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers,
With the fierce native daring which instills
The stirring memory of a thousand years,

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,

Over the unreturning brave,-alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valor, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,

The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms, - the day

Battle's magnificently-stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent,
Rider and horse.-friend, foe,-in one red burial blent!

THE END.

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