Down came the blow; but on the heath
The erring blade found bloodless sheath.
The struggling foe may now unclasp
The fainting chief's relaxing grasp;
Cawounded, from the dreadful close,
But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.

THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN FIELD.

"But see! look up! on Flodden bent,
The Scottish foe has fired his tent.”
And sudden as he spoke,

From the sharp ridges of the bill,
All downward to the banks of Till,
Was wreathed in sable smoke.
Volumed and vast, and rolling far,
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war,
As down the hill they broke:
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone,
Announced their march; their tread alone,
At times one warning trumpet's blown,
At times a stifled hum,

Told England, from his mountain throne,
King James did rushing come.

Scarce could they hear, or see their foes,
Until at weapon-point they close,
With sword-sway and with lance's thrust;
And such a yell was there.

Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon the earth,
And fiends in upper air;

Oh, life and death were in the shout,
Recoil and rally, charge and rout,
And triumph and despair.

Long look'd the anxious squires: their eye
Could in the darkness nought descry.
At length the freshening western blast
Aside the shroud of battle cast:
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears,
Above the brightening cloud appears:
And in the smoke the pennons flew,
As in the storm the white sea-mew,
Then mark'd they, dashing broad and far,
The broken billows of the war.

And plumed crests of chieftain's brave,
Floating like foam upon the wave;

But nought distinct they see.

Wide raged the battle on the plain;

Spears shook, and falchions flash'd amain,

Fell England's arrow-flight like rain :
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again,
Wild and disorderly.

Amid the scenes of tumult, high,

They saw Lord Marmion's falchion fly;
And stainless Tunstall's banner white,
And Edmund Howard's lion bright,
Still bear them bravely in the fight,
Although against them come
Of gallant Gordons many a one,
And many a stubborn Highlandman,
And many a rugged border clan,
With Huntly and with Home.
Far on the left, unseen the while,
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle;
Though there the western mountaineer
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear,
And flung the feeble targe aside,

And with both hands the broad-sword plied;
'Twas vain. But fortune on the right,
With fickle smile, cheer'd Scotland's fight,
Then fell that spotless banner white,—
The Howard's lion fell.

Yet still Lord Marmion's falchion flew,
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew
Around the battle yell.

The border slogan rent the sky!
A Home! a Gordon! was the cry!
Loud were the clanging blows;
Advanced-forced back-now low, now high,
The pennon sunk and rose;

As bends the bark's mast in the gale,
When rent are rigging, shrouds and sail,
It wavered mid the foes.

No longer Blount the view could bear :

'By all that's sacred, I do swear,

I will not see it lost!

Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare,

May count your beads, and patter prayerI gallop to the host."

And to the fray he rode amain,

Followed by all the archer train ;

The fiery youth, with desperate charge,
Made for a space, an opening large,—
The rescued banner rose,-

But darkly clos'd the war around;
Like pine-tree rooted from the ground,
It sunk among the foes.

Then Eustace mounted too; yet staid,
As loth to leave the helpless maid,
When, fast as shaft can fly,

Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread,
The loose rein dangling from his head,
Housing and saddle bloody red,

Lord Marmion's steed rushed by.
And Eustace, maddening at the sight,
A look and sign to Clara cast,
To mark he would return in haste,
Then plunged into the fight.

By this, though deep the evening fell,
Still rose the battle's deadly swell;
For still the Scots around their king,
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring,
But as they left the dark'ning heath,
More desperate grew the strife of death:
The English shafts in vollies hail'd,
In headlong charge their horse assailed,
Front, flank, and rear, their squadrons sweep,
To break the Scottish circle deep

That fought around their king!

But yet though thick the shafts as snow,
Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,
Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,

Unbroken was the ring:

The stubborn spearmen still made good
Their dark impenetrable wood;
Each stepping where his comrade stood
The instant that he fell.

No thought was there of dastard flight;
Linked in the serried phalanx tight;

Groom fought like noble, squire like knight,
As fearlessly as well;

Till utter darkness closed her wing

O'er their thin host and wounded king;
Then skilful Surrey's sage commands
Led back from strife his shattered bands,
And from the charge they drew,

As mountain waves, from wasted lands,
Sweep back to ocean blue.

THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN,

A Village in Germany, where the Austrians and Bavarians were defeated by the French, under Moreau, Dec. 3, 1800.

On Linden, when the sun was low,

All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven;
And, volleying like the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder still these fires shall glow,
On Linden's hills of purpled snow;
And bloodier still shall be the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn ;-but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens.-On, ye brave,
Who rush to conquest or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few, shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall mark a soldier's sepulchre.

Campbell.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB'S ARMY.

(2 Chron. xxxii. 21—24.)

THE Assyrian came down, like a wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears were like stars on the sea
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host, with their banners, at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest, when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

M

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
Their hearts but once heaved-then for ever stood still.

And there lay the steed, with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ;
The tents were all silent-the banners alone-
The lances unlifted—the trumpets unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted, like snow, in the glance of the Lord.

Byron.

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO,

A Village in the Netherlands, where the British and Prussians under Wellington and Blucher, defeated the French, and took Napoleon prisoner, June 18th, 1815.

THERE was a sound of revelry by night,

And Belgium's Capital had gathered 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 looked 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!