APOSTROPHE TO THE QUEEN OF FRANCE. (BURKE.) It is now sixteen, or seventeen years', | since I saw the queen of France, then the dauphiness, | at Versailles; and surely, never lighted on this orb, (which she hardly seemed to touch) a more delightful vision. | I saw her just above the horizon, decorating, and cheering the elevated sphere | she just began to move, in - glittering like the morning star-full of life', and splen'dor, and joy,. 'Oh what a revolution! and what a heart must I have, to contemplate without emotion, that elevation, and that fall! | ! 'Little did I dream', | when she added titles of vene1 ration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, | that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace', concealed in that bo.som- I little did I dream that I should have lived | to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men',in a nation of men of honor, and of cavaliers.. thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look | that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone.. | That of sophisters, | economists, and calculators, has succeed.ed; and the glory of Europe, is extinguished for ever. Never, never more, | shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission,that dignified obedience that subordination of the heart' which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the I spirit of an exalted free dom. The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, | the nurse of manly sentiment, and heroic enterprise, is gone! It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honor, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage | whilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched; and under which, vice itself | lost half its evil, by losing all its gross.ness. fl BATTLE OF WARSAW. (CAMPBELL.) O sacred Truth! | thy triumph ceas'd' awhile, Warsaw's last champion, from her height, survey'd, | -- He said and on the rampart-heights, array'd | In vain, alas! | in vain, ye gallant few! | a * Pandour (French), Hungarian soldier. b Hůz-zår, one of the Hungarian horsemen, so called from the shout they generally make, at the first onset. Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp, the shatter'd spear, Departed spirits of the mighty dead! Ye that at Marathon, and Leuc'tra bled! | BATTLE OF WATERLOO. (BYRON.) There was a sound of revelry by night; | Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again' ; | But hush,!hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell'! b *Proud arch; not prow-darch'. Soft eyes; not sof-ties. 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 unconfin'd`; | 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, | dead'lier 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 | And rous'd the vengeance, blood alone could quell. : | wh '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 instils | 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', | Of living valor, | rolling on the foe, | And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold, and low1.| 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! | MARCO BOZZARIS.a At midnight, in his guarded tent, | The Turk was dreaming of the hour | When Greece, | her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power: | Marco Bozzaris, the Epaminondas of modern Greece. He fell in a night attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the |