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And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the More idly than the summer flies French tirailDutch in vain assailed,

leurs rush round;

For town and slope were filled with fort and As stubble to the lava-tide French squadrons flanking battery, strew the ground; And well they swept the English ranks and Bombshell and grape and round-shot pour : Dutch auxiliary. still on they marched and fired;

As vainly through De Barri's wood the Brit- Fast from each volley grenadier and voltiish soldiers burst

The French artillery drove them back dimin

ished and dispersed.

geur retired.

"Push on, my household cavalry!" King Louis madly cried ;

The bloody duke of Cumberland beheld with To death they rush, but rude their shock ;

not unavenged they died.

anxious eye, And ordered up his last reserve, his latest On through the camp the column trod; King

chance to try;

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!

Louis turns his rein;

"Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed: "the Irish troops remain ;"

And mustering come his chosen troops like And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a

clouds at eventide.

Six thousand English veterans in stately col-
umn tread;

Their cannon blaze in front and flank; Lord
Hay is at their head;

Waterloo

Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement and true.

"Lord Clare," he says, "you have your wish there are your Saxon foes!"

Steady they step adown the slope, steady The marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously

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Steady they load, steady they fire, moving How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're right onward still wont to be so gay!

The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in | Bright was their steel: 'tis bloody now, their their hearts to-dayguns are filled with gore; The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith Through shattered ranks and severed files and trampled flags they tore.

'twas writ could dry, Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, The English strove with desperate strength, their women's parting cry, paused, rallied, staggered, fled: Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, The green hillside is matted close with dying their country overthrown; and with dead.

Each looks as if revenge for all were staked Across the plain and far away passed on that on him alone. hideous wrack,

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet else- While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon where their track. Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in

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Like lions leaping at a fold when mad with Nor ever was, I think, since time began

hunger's pang

Right up against the English line the Irish

exiles sprang;

No, and I don't believe will ever be :
I know mamma thinks so,
And that's the reason partly, I dare say,

She hopes with all her heart her boy some

day

Will lead the people in his father's way.
And when I tell her, "No,

I want to be a soldier-meet the foe,"
She says (and dear old auntie just the
same)

That there's a soldier's service nobler far,
With surer triumph and a grander fame,
Than any fighting in an earthly war—
Great battles that no eye has ever seen
'Gainst foes more fierce than men have ever
been,

And that a clergyman does wear a sword
As captain in the armies of the Lord.

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Forty times over let Michaelmas pass:
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear;
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
Once you have come to forty year.

Pledge me round, I bid ye
declare,
All good fellows whose beards are gray;
Did not the fairest of the fair
Common grow and wearisome ere

Ever a month was past away ?

The reddest lips that ever have kissed,
The brightest eyes that ever have shone
May pray and whisper and we not list,
Or look away and never be missed,
Ere yet ever a month is gone.

Gillian's dead! God rest her bier!
How I loved her twenty years syne!
Marian's married, but I sit here,
Alone and merry at forty year,
Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

TERRORS OF A GUILTY CONSCIENCE. What poor fate followed thee and plucked

CURSED

URSED with unnumbered groundless
fears,

How pale yon shivering wretch appears !
For him the daylight shines in vain,
For him the fields no joys contain;
Nature's whole charms to him are lost,
No more the woods their music boast,
No more the meads their vernal bloom,
No more the gales their rich perfume;
Impending mists deform the sky,
And beauty withers in his eye.
In hopes his terrors to elude,

By day he mingles with the crowd,
Yet finds his soul to fears a prey
In busy crowds and open day.
If night his lonely walks surprise,
What horrid visions round him rise!
The blasted oak which meets his way,
Shown by the meteor's sudden ray,
The midnight murderer's lone retreat,
Felt Heaven's avengeful bolt of late;
The clashing chain, the groan profound,
Loud from yon ruined tower resound,
And now the spot he seems to tread
Where some self-slaughtered corse was laid;
He feels fixed earth beneath him bend,
Deep murmurs from her caves ascend,
Till all his soul, by fancy swayed,
Sees livid phantoms crowd the shade.

THOMAS BLACK LOCK.

CESAR'S LAMENTATION OVER

POMPEY'S HEAD.

Он, thou conqueror, Thou glory of the world once, now the pity, Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus ?

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ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH LIFE ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY YEARS AGO.

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THE BRITISH MUSEUM IN

1750.

ES, doctor, I have seen the British Museum, which is a noble collection, and even stupendous if we consider it was made by a private man, a physician, who was obliged to make his own fortune at the same time; but, great as the collection is, it would appear more striking if it were arranged in one spacious saloon, instead of being divided into different apartments which it does not entirely fill. I could wish the series of medals were connected, and the whole of the animal, vegetable and mineral kingdoms completed, by adding to each, at the public expense, those articles that are wanting. It would likewise be a great improvement with respect to the library if the deficiencies were made up by purchasing all the books of character that are not to be found already in the collection. They might be classed in centuries, according to the dates of their publication, and catalogues printed of them and the manuscripts, for the information of those that want to consult or compile from such authorities. I could also wish, for the honor of the nation, that there was a complete apparatus for a course of mathematics, mechanics and experimental philosophy, and a good salary settled on an able professor who should give regular lectures on these subjects.

LIBERTY OF THE PRESS.

But this is all idle speculation which will never be reduced to practice. Considering the temper of the times, it is a wonder to see any institution whatsoever established for the benefit of the public. The spirit of party is risen to a kind of frenzy unknown to former ages, or, rather, degenerated to a total extinction of honesty and candor. You know I have observed for some time that the public papers are become the infamous vehicles of the most cruel and perfidious defamation. Every rancorous knave, every desperate incendiary, that can afford to spend half a crown or three shillings may skulk behind the press of a newsmonger and have a stab at the first character in the kingdom without running the least hazard of detection or punishment.

I have made acquaintance with a Mr. Bar ton, whom Jery knew at Oxford-a good sort of man, though most ridiculously warped in his political principles; but his partiality is the less offensive as it never appears in the style of scurrility and abuse. He is a member of Parliament and a retainer to the court, and his whole conversation turns on the virtues and perfections of the ministers who are his patrons. T'other day, when he was bedaubing one of those worthies with the most fulsome praise, I told him I had seen the same nobleman characterized very differently in one of the daily papers-indeed, so stigmatized that if one half of what was said of him was true he must be not only unfit

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