Second Voice.

2. How peaceful the grave! its quiet how deep! Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft 1 its sleep, And flowrets perfume it with ether.

First Voice.

3. There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead, And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed, And snakes in its nettle weeds hiss.

Second Voice.

4. How lovely, how sweet the repose of the tomb ! No tempests are there ;-but the nightingales come. And sing their sweet chorus of bliss.

First Voice.

5. The ravens of night flap their wings o'er the grave; "Tis the vulture's abode ;-'tis the wolf's dreary cave, Where they tear up the dead with their fangs. Second Voice.

6. There the cony," at evening, disports with his love, Or rests on the sod; while the turtles† above, Repose on the bough that o'erhangs.

First Voice.

7. There darkness and dampness, with poisonous breath, And loathsome decay, fill the dwelling of death ; The trees are all barren and bare.

Second Voice.

8. O! soft are the breezes that play round the tomb,
And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume,
With lilies and jessamine fair.

First Voice.

9. The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears, Would fain hurry by; and with trembling and fears. He is launched on the wreck-covered river.

Second Voice.

10. Here the traveller, worn with life's pilgrimage dreary, Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary,

And sweetly reposes for ever.

*Cony, a rabbit.

Turtles, turtle-doves.

LESSON XCII. 3

The Battle of Linden.*-Campbell.

1. ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter, was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

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

3. By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry.

4. Then shook the hills with thunder riv'n,
Then rush'd the steed to battle driv❜n,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.

5. And redder yet those fires shall glow,
On Linden's hills of blood-stain'd snow,
And darker yet shall be the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

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

Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

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

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

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

* Hohenlinden, a town in Austria, famous for the defeat of the Aus ans, December 3d, 1800, by the French under Moreau.

+ Pronounced Mu'-nick, a city 20 miles west of Hohenlinden.

LESSON XCIV.

The Indian Chief.-ANONYMOUS.

The following poem is founded on a traditionary story which is common in the neighborhood of the Falls of Niagara.

1. THE rain fell in torrents, the thunder roll'd deep,
And silenc'd the cataract's roar;

But neither the night nor the tempest could keep
The warrior chieftain on shore.

2. The war shout has sounded, the stream must be cross'd; Why lingers the leader afar!

"Twere better his life than his glory be lost;
He never came late to the war.

3. He seiz❜d a canoe as he sprang from the rock,
But fast as the shore fled his reach,

The mountain wave seem'd all his efforts to mock,
And dash'd the canoe on the beach.

4. "Great Spirit," he cried," shall the battle be given,
And all but their leader be there?

May this struggle land me with them or in heaven!'
And he push'd with the strength of despair.

5. He has quitted the shore, he has gained the deep,
His guide is the lightning alone;

But he felt not with fast, irresistible sweep,
The rapids were bearing him down.

6. But the cataract's roar with the thunder now vied;
"O what is the meaning of this!"

He spoke, and just turn'd to the cataract's side,
As the lightning flash'd down the abyss.

7. All the might of his arm to one effort was given,
At self preservation's command;

But the treacherous oar with the effort was riven,
And the fragment remain'd in his hand.

8. "Be it so," cry'd the warrior, taking his seat,
And folding his bow to his breast;

"Let the cataract shroud my pale corse with its sheet. And its roar lull my spirit to rest.

9. "The prospect of death with the brave I have borne I shrink not to bear, it alone;

I have often fac'd death when the hope was forlorn,
But I shrink not to face him with none.'

10. The thunder was hush'd, and the battle field stain'd,
When the sun met the war-wearied eye,

But no trace of the boat, or the chieftain remain'd-
Though his bow was still seen in the sky.

LESSON XCV.

The Burial of Sir John Moore.* -REV. C. Wolfe.

1. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our Hero was buried.
2. We buried him darkly; at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moon-beams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

3. No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest-
With his martial cloak around him!

4. Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow-

5. We thought—as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow-

How the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head.
And we far away on the billow!

6. "Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;

But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him."

7. But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock tolled the hour for retiring,

A gallant British General, killed by the French in battle, at Corunna, in Spain, Jan. 16th, 1809.

And we heard the distant and random gun,
That the foe was suddenly firing-

8. Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone
But we left him-alone with his glory!

1. WHEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,

2. Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid,† hoary chief;
Ev'ry burning word he spoke
Full of rage, and full of grief.

3. "Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,

'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

4. "Rome shall perish-write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

5. "Rome, for empire far renown'd,
Tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground--
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

6. "Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name;
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
Harmony the path to fame.

7. "Then the progeny that springs
From the forests of our land,

* Boadicea was queen of the Iceni, in Britain. She was defeated and conquered by the Romans, A. D. 59.

+ A Priest of the ancient Britons.