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APOSTROPHIE 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, I and joy. I 'Oh what a revolu tion ! and what a heart musi I have, to contemplate without emotion, that elevation, and that fall !.
* Little did I dream', when she added titles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, i that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace', concealed in that bo,som . 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, I 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 soph isters, economists, and calculators, has succeeded; and the glory of Europe is extinguished for ever. 1
Never, never more,' shall we behold tient generous loyalty to rank and sex ,- that proud submission,-that dignified obedience thal subordination of the heart which kept alive, even in servitude itse.f',' the spirit of an exalted free doin. The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly Sentiment, and heroic en terprise, I is gone! it is gone, - that sensibility of principle, - that chastity of honor, which fel a stain like a wound, which inspired cour age' whilst il mitigated ferocity, which enno bled whatever it touched ; 1 and under which, vice itself lost half its evil by losing all its gross ness.,
BATTLE OF WARSAW.
(CAMPBELL.) O sacred Truth! thy triumph ceas'd' awhile, And Hope, thy sister, ceas'd with thee to smile', / When leagued Oppression pour'd to northern wars, Her whisker'd pandoors,' and her fierce hussars,' | Wav'd her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Peal'd her loud druin, and twang'd her trumpet-horn : Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van' | Presaging wrath to Poland, and to man ! | Warsaw's last champion, from her height, survey'd, i Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ru in laid - 1 O Heav'n! he cried, my bleeding country, save!! Is there no hand on high to shield the brave' ? What though destruction sweep these lovely plainsRise', fellow-men! our country yet remains ! By that dread name, we wave the sword on high, And swear for her to live - with her to die !| He said and on the rampart-heights, array d ! His trusty warriors, | few, but undismay'd ; 1 Firm-paced, and slow, a horrid front they form; | Sull as the breeze', but dreadful as the storin ; 1 Low, murmuring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge', or death, the watchword, and reply: ; | Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm', / And the loud tocsin told their last alarmi In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few ! | From rank to rank, your volley'd thunder few: O bloodiest picture in the book of Time !! Sarma tia fell, : unwept', without a crime ; 1 Found nor a generous friends, ' a pitying foe', / Strength in her arms, , nor mercy in her wo!
• Pandour (French), Hungarian soldier. Hůz-zår, one of the Slungarian horsemen, so called from the shout tbey generally make, : the first onset.
Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp, the shatter'd spear,
BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
(BYRON.) There was a sound of revelry by night'; 1 And Belgium's capital had gather'd then Her beauty, and her chivalry; I and bright | The lamps shone o'er fair women, and brave men;/ A thousanıl 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'!!
• Proud arch; not prow-darch'. "Soft eyes; not sof-lies.
Did ye not hear it? - No;l'twas but the wind, i
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before !
Within a window'd niche of that high hall,
And rous'd 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,
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, l
And there was mounting in hot haste': the steed,
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb., 1
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! :- 1 How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, i Savage, and shrill.! | But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers, With the fierce native daring | which instils i
The stirring meinory 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, I Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, O'er 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, shallmoulder cold, and low .1
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life'; 1
Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and penti, Rider, and horse', - | friend, | foe', - | in one red
burial blent ! |
(HALLECK.) At midnight, in his guarded tent, i
The Turk was dreaming of the hour 1 When Greece, ; her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power: 1 • Marco Bozzaris, the Epaminonda' of modern Grice. He fell n a night attack upon the Turkish camp al La-p', the site of the