Then bugle's note and cannon's roar The death-like silence broke, And with one start, and with one cry, The royal city woke. At once on all her stately gates From all her reeling spires; Peal'd loud the voice of fear; And all the thousand masts of Thames Sent back a louder cheer; And the broad streams of flags and pikes As fast from every village round The horse came spurring in: And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath, The warlike errand went, And roused in many an ancient hall, The gallant 'squires of Kent. High on bleak Hempstead's swarthy moor, All night from tower to tower they sprang- Till the proud Peak unfurl'd the flag Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze Till broad and fierce the star came forth And tower and hamlet rose in arms Till Belvoir's lordly terraces O'er the wide vale of Trent Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burn'd A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS. OH! weep for Moncontour. Oh! weep for the hour When the children of darkness On the bosoms that bled For their rights and their God. Oh! weep for Moncontour. Oh weep for the slain Who for faith and for freedom Lay slaughter'd in vain. Oh! weep for the living, Who linger to bear The renegade's shame, Or the exile's despair. One look, one last look, To the cots and the towers, To the rows of our vines, And the beds of our flowers, To the church where the bones Of our fathers decay'd, Where we fondly had deem'd That our own should be laid. Alas! we must leave thee, Dear desolate home, The shavelings of Rome, And the guile of Lorraine. And the dance of thy maids. Of the free and the brave. Our lands we resign; But, Father, we kneel To no altar but thine. D. M. MOIR. MR. MOIR was born about the beginning of the present century. He is a physician, and resides at Musselburgh, near Edinburgh. Under the signature of DELTA, he has been for many years one of the principal poetical contributors to Blackwood's Magazine; and he has published, besides one or two volumes of poems, Outlines of the Ancient History of Scarce half-resign'd we look'd, yet thought how "Twould be again in after months to meet. And months have pass'd: now the bright moon is shining O'er the gray mountains and the stilly sea, As, by the streamlet's willowy bend reclining, I pause remembering thee, Who to the moonlight lent a softer charm As through these wilds we wandered arm in arm. With thoughts, a treasured store; An angel phantom gliding through the trees, Thine alabaster brow, thy cheek of brightness, Thy tresses in the breeze Floating their auburn, and thine eyes that made, So rich their blue, heaven's azure like a shade. Methinks even yet I feel thy timid fingers, With their bland pressure thrilling bliss to mine; Methinks yet on my cheek thy breathing lingers As, fondly leant to thine, I told how life all pleasureless would be, Youth's summer calm with storms of wintry strife; The star of Hope shone o'er our path unclouded, And Fancy colour'd life With those elysian rainbow-hues, which Truth Melts with his rod, when disenchanting youth. Where art thou now? I look around, but see not The features and the form that haunt my dreams! Where art thou now? I listen, but for me, not The deep rich music streams Medicine, The Autobiography of Mansie Waugh, A Memoir of John Galt, and other works in prose. In his poems he alludes to frequent domestic misfortunes. Casa's Dirge, Wee Willie, and other pieces, breathe a pure and simple pathos, and his writings, generally, are characterized by much delicacy and grace. Of that entrancing voice, which could bestow I miss thy smile, when morn's first light is bursting Vain are my longings, my repinings vain; Yet should it cheer me, that nor wo hath shatter'd And visions be fulfill'd, by Hope adored, I start from out my revery, to know Let Fortune change-be fickle Fate preparing For, ah! with others' wealth and mirth would be That happiness resides in outward shows: For genuine bliss can ne'er be far apart, I would not that the love which owes its birth Fall Heaven's best joys on thy beloved head! May cares that harass, and may griefs that wound me, Flee from thy path and bed! Be every thought that stirs and hour that flies, WEE WILLIE. FARE-THEE-WELL, our last and fairest, Back with him and his to dwell. Only o'er thy brow had shed, When thy spirit join'd the seraphs, And thy dust the dead. Like a sunbeam, through our dwelling Shone thy presence bright and calm! Thou didst add a zest of pleasure; To our sorrows thou wert balm ;Brighter beam'd thine eyes than summer; And thy first attempt at speech Thrill'd our heart-strings with a rapture Music ne'er could reach. As we gazed upon thee sleeping, With thy fine fair locks outspread, Thou didst seem a little angel, Who from heaven to earth had stray'd; And, entranced, we watch'd the vision, Half in hope and half affright, Lest what we deem'd ours, and earthly, Should dissolve in light. Snows o'ermantled hill and valley, Sullen clouds begrim'd the sky, On our lintel set his sign; Willie, round to thine! As the beams of Spring's first morning And in thy small coffin laid; Nine times had triumphant striven, In one grave had met your ashes, And your souls in Heaven! Five were ye, the beauteous blossoms Of our hopes, and hearts, and hearth; Two asleep lie buried under Three for us yet gladden earth: Yet while thinking, oh! our lost ones! Blest, for ever blest, are ye, Mid the sinless, little children, Who have heard his "Come to me!" 'Yond the shades of death's dark valley, Now ye lean upon his breast, Where the wicked dare not enter, And the weary rest! We are wicked-we are weary— MIDNIGHT. "Tis night, and in darkness;-the visions of youth Flit solemn and slow in the eye of the mind; The hopes that excited have perish'd ;—and truth Laments o'er the wreck they are leaving behind. "Tis midnight;-and wide o'er the regions of riot Are spread, deep in silence, the wings of repose; And man, sooth'd from revel and lull'd into quiet, Forgets in his slumber the weight of his woes. How gloomy and dim is the scowl of the heaven, Whose azure the clouds with their darkness invest: Not a star o'er the shadowy concave is given, To omen a something like hope in the breast. Hark! how the lone night-wind up-tosses the forest; A downcast regret through the mind slowly steals; But ah! 'tis the tempests of Fortune, that sorest The desolate heart in its loneliness feels. Where, where are the spirits in whom was my trust; Whose bosoms with mutual affection would burn? Alas! they are gone to their homes in the dust; The grass rustles drearily over their urn: Whilst I, in a populous solitude languish, Mid foes who beset me, and friends who are cold: Yes, the pilgrim of earth oft has felt in his anguish That the heart may be widow'd before it be old! Affection can soothe but its vot'ries an hour,Doom'd soon in the flames that it raised to de part; But oh! Disappointment has poison and power To ruffle and fret the most patient of heart! How oft 'neath the dark-pointed arrows of malice Hath merit been destined to bear and to bleed; And they who of pleasure have emptied the chalice, Can tell that the dregs are full bitter indeed! Let the storms of adversity lower,-'tis in vain, Though friends should forsake me and foes should condemn; WEEP NOT FOR HER. WEEP not for her! Her span was like the sky, Weep not for her! She died in early youth, Her summer prime waned not to days that freeze, Weep not for her! By fleet or slow decay Her prospects wither, and her hopes grow dark. Weep not for her! Weep not for her! It was not hers to feel The miseries that corrode amassing years, Weep not for her! She is an angel now, Weep not for her! Her memory is the shrine Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers, Weep not for her! There is no cause of wo, And from earth's low defilements keep thee back; So, when a few fleet swerving years have flown, She'll meet thee at heaven's gate-and lead thee on: Weep not for her! FLODDEN FIELD. "TWAS on a sultry summer noon, The sky was blue, the breeze was still, And Nature with the robes of June Had clothed the slopes of Flodden Hill,As rode we slowly o'er the plain, Mid wayside flowers and sprouting grain; The leaves on every bough seem'd sleeping, And wild bees murmur'd in their mirth, So pleasantly, it seem'd as earth A jubilee was keeping! And canst thou be, unto my soul I said, that dread Northumbrian field, Where war's terrific thunder roll Above two banded kingdoms peal'd? From out the forest of his spears Ardent imagination hears The crash of Surrey's onward charging; While curtel-axe and broad-sword gleam Opposed, a bright, wide, coming stream, Like Solway's tide enlarging. Hark to the turmoil and the shout, The war-cry, and the cannon's boom! Behold the struggle and the rout, The broken lance and draggled plume! Borne to the earth, with deadly force, Comes down the horseman and his horse; Round boils the battle like an ocean, While stripling blithe and veteran stern Mown down like swathes of summer flowers, And thou, the vanguard onwards leading, Liest low amid the bleeding! Yes! here thy life-star knew decline, Though hope, that strove to be deceived, Shaped thy lone course to Palestine, And what it wish'd full oft believed:An unhewn pillar on the plain Marks out the spot where thou wast slain; There pondering as I stood, and gazing On its gray top, the linnet sang, And, o'er the slopes where conflict rang, The quiet sheep were grazing. And were the nameless dead unsung, The patriot and the peasant train, Who like a phalanx round thee clung, To find but death on Flodden Plain? No! many a mother's melting lay Mourn'd o'er the bright flowers wede away; And many a maid, with tears of sorrow, Whose locks no more were seen to wave, Wept for the beauteous and the brave, Who came not on the morrow! EDWARD MOXON. THIS modern classic bookseller is a worthy St. Peter, holding the keys to the Heaven of Poetry. By his enterprise and liberality he has brought BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, BEN JONSON, MASSINGER and WYCHERLEY to the table and shelf of the poor scholar, a benevolent work for which the lovers of wit, sentiment, and verse, the friends of all true humanities, "rise up and call him blessed." Mr. MoxoN is the publisher of ROGERS, WORDSWORTH, CAMPBELL, TALFOURD, TENNYSON, HUNT, and BROWNING. He was the friend of LAMB when living,-" closer than a brother," and death has not ended the sweet labours of friendship. The numerous editions of "Elia" are frankincense laid on the tomb of a noble spirit. Mr. Moxon, too, has suffered a prosecution for the publication of SHELLEY, and been vindicated in England by the eloquence of TALFOURD; though he has needed no vindication, for his motives are here above the reach of his assailant. If pure sentiment and the cultivation of the heart's best affections needed any introduction to the soul of the reader, they would have it here in Mr. MoxON, the friend of the Muses and their sons. But Mr. MoxON on the score of his own merits may stand "unbonnetted" among his brethren. We quote from the edition of his poems published in 1843. TO THE MUSE. FAIREST of virgins, daughter of a God, That dwellest where man never trod, That through thy aid he still in paradise may live! Could I a thousand voices bring, They were too few. Who like to thee Can captivate the heart whose soul is melody? Early thou lead'st me to some gentle hill, And wakest for me the holy thrill Of birds that greet the welcome morn, Rejoicing on wild wing, through fields of ether borne. Thou paint'st the landscape which I then survey, Perfumest with odours sweet my way, Till I forget this world of wo, And journey through a land where peerless pleasures flow. At noon thou bid'st descend a golden shower; Pacing the grove with pensive mien, "Tis then thou comest with most delight; No hour can be compared with thine 'twixt day and night. "Tis, as it fadeth, like the farewell smile, Which settles on the lips awhile Of those we love, ere they in death Resign to heaven their souls, to us their latest breath. The goodly of old time thou bring'st to view, Clad in bright steel, a warlike band; Old bards are there! mine eyes in reverence fall Have knelt, and solace found in dire adversity. Sir Philip Sidney. |