THE LANDING OF THE BRITISH TROOPS IN SPAIN IN 1809. AFAR was heard that thrice-repeated cry,

In which old Albion's heart and tongue unite, Whene'er her soul is up and pulse beats high,

Whether it hail the winecup or the fight, [light. And bid each arm be strong, or bid each heart be Don Roderick turn'd him as the shout grew loud: A varied scene the changeful vision show'd; For, where the ocean mingled with the cloud, A gallant navy stemm'd the billows broad. From mast and stern St. George's symbol flow'd, Blent with the silver cross to Scotland dear; Mottling the sea, their landward barges row'd,

And flash'd the sun on bayonet, brand, and spear, And the wild beach return'd the seaman's jovial cheer.

It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight!

The billows foam'd beneath a thousand oars; Fast as they land the red-cross ranks unite, Legions on legions bright'ning all the shores. Then banners rise, and cannon-signal roars, Then peals the warlike thunder of the drum, Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet-flourish pours,

And patriot hopes awake, and doubts are dumb, For, bold in Freedom's cause, the bands of ocean come!

A various host they come, whose ranks display
Each mode in which the warrior meets the fight;
The deep battalion locks its firm array,

And meditates his aim the marksman light;
Far glance the light of sabres flashing bright,
Where mounted squadrons shake the echoing
mead,

Lacks not artillery breathing flame and night, Nor the fleet ordnance whirl'd by rapid steed, That rivals lightning's flash in ruin and in speed.

A various host, from kindred realms they came,
Brethren in arms, but rivals in renown;
For yon fair bands shall merry England claim,

And with their deeds of valour deck her crown. Hers their bold port, and hers their martial frown, And hers their scorn of death in Freedom's

cause;

Their eyes of azure, and their locks of brown, And the blunt speech that bursts without a pause, And freeborn thoughts, which league the soldier with the laws.

And, oh! loved warriors of the minstrel's land! Yonder your bonnets nod, your tartans wave! The rugged form may mark the mountain band, And harsher features, and a mien more grave; But ne'er in battle-field throbb'd heart so brave, As that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid; And when the pibroch bids the battle rave,

And level for the charge your arms are laid, Where lives the desperate foe that for such onset stay'd!

Hark! from yon stately ranks what laughter rings, Mingling wild mirth with war's stern minstrelsy, His jest while each blithe comrade round him And moves to death with military glee: [flings, Boast, Erin, boast them! tameless, frank, and free, In kindness warm, and fierce in danger known, Rough Nature's children, humorous as she:

And he, yon chieftain-strike the proudest tone Of thy bold harp, green isle!—the hero is thine or

SONG.

THE heath this night must be my bed,
The bracken curtain for my head,

My lullaby the warder's tread,

Far, far, from love and thee, Mary!

To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,
My couch may be my bloody plaid,
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid!
It will not waken me, Mary!

I may not, dare not, fancy now
The grief that clouds thy lovely brow;
I dare not think upon thy vow,

And all it promised me, Mary.
No fond regret must Norman know;
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,
His heart must be like bended bow,
His foot like arrow free, Mary.

A time will come with feeling fraught,
For, if I fall in battle fought,
Thy hapless lover's dying thought

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary.
And if return'd from conquer'd foes,
How blithely will the evening close,
How sweet the linnet sing repose,

To my young bride and me, Mary!

SONG.

Nor faster yonder rowers' might,
Flings from their oars the spray,
Not faster yonder rippling bright,
That tracks the shallop's course in light,
Melts in the lake away,

Than men from memory erase

The benefits of former days;

Then, stranger, go! good speed the while,

Nor think again of the lonely isle.

High place to thee in royal court,
High place in battle line,

Good hawk and hound for sylvan sport,
Where beauty sees the brave resort,

The honour'd meed be thine!

True be thy sword, thy friend sincere,
Thy lady constant, kind, and dear,
And lost in love and friendship's smile
Be memory of the lonely isle.

But if beneath yon southern sky
A plaided stranger roam,
Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh,
And sunken cheek and heavy eye,
Pine for his Highland home:
Then, warrior, then be thine to show
The care that sooths a wanderer's wo;
Remember then thy hap ere while,
A stranger in the lonely isle.

Or if, on life's uncertain main,
Mishap shall mar thy sail;

If faithful, wise, and brave in vain,
Wo, want, and exile thou sustain
Beneath the fickle gale;

Waste not a sigh on fortune changed,
On thankless courts, or friends estranged,
But come where kindred worth shall smile,
To greet thee in the lonely isle.

HELVELLYN.

I CLIMB'D the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide;

All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,
And starting around me the echoes replied.
On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was

bending,

And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,
One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,
When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer

had died.

Dark green was that spot mid the brown mountainheather,

Where the pilgrim of Nature lay stretch'd in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandon'd to weather, Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?

When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?

How many long days and long nights didst thou number,

Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And oh, was it meet that-no requiem read o'er him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him—

Unhonour'd, the pilgrim from life should depart? When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;

With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;

In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beam

ing;

Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb,

When wilder'd he drops from some cliff huge in stature,

And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.