afforded an asylum to those unfortunate exiles, which no law of neutrality forbade, they would protect them in it at every hazard. France, finding them thus resolved, gave up the attempt. This was effected by that determined courage which alone can make a nation great or respectable: and this effect has invariably been produced by the same cause in every age and every clime. It was this that made Rome the mistress of the world, and Athens the protectress of Greece. When was it that Rome attracted most strongly the admiration of mankind, and impressed the deepest sentiment of fear on the hearts of her enemies? It was when seventy thousand of her sons lay bleeding at Cannæ, and Hannibal, victorious over three Roman armies and twenty nations, was thundering at her gates. It was then that the young and heroic Scipio, having sworn on his sword, in the presence of the fathers of the country, not to despair of the republic, marched forth at the head of a people firmly resolved to conquer or die: and that resolution ensured them the victory. When did Athens appear the greatest and the most formidable? It was when giving up their houses and possessions to the flames of the enemy, and having transferred their wives, their children, their aged parents, and the symbols of their religion, on board of their fleet, they resolved to consider themselves as the republic, and their ships as their country. It was then they struck that terrible blow, under which the greatness of Persia sunk and expired.

These means, sir, and many others are in our power. Let us resolve to use them, and act so as to convince France that we have taken the resolution, and there is nothing to fear. This conviction will be to us instead of fleets and armies, and even more effectual. Seeing us thus prepared, she will not attack us. Then will she listen to our peaceable proposals; then will she accept the concessions we mean to offer. But should this offer not be thus supported, should it be attended by any circumstances from which she can discover weakness, distrust, or division, then will she reject it with derision and scorn. I view in the proposed amendment circumstances of this kind; and for that, among other reasons, shall vote against it. I shall vote against it, not because I am for war, but because I am for peace; and because I see in this amendment itself, and more especially in the

course to which it points, the means of impeding, instead of promoting, our pacific endeavours. And let it be remembered, that when we give this vote, we vote not only on the peace of our country, but on what is far more important, its rights and its honour. HARPER.

72.-SONG OF OUTALISSI.

THEN mournfully the parting bugle bid

Its farewell, o'er the grave of worth and truth; Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid

His face on earth;-him watch'd in gloomy ruth,
His woodland guide: but words had none to soothe
The grief that knew not consolation's name :
Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth,

He watch'd, beneath its folds, each burst that came
Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame!
"And I could weep;"-the Oneida chief
His descant wildly thus begun;
"But that I may not stain with grief
The death song of my father's son !
Or bow this head in wo;

For by my wrongs, and by my wrath!
To-morrow Areouski's breath,

(That fires yon heaven with storms and death,)

Shall light us to the foe:

And we shall share, my Christian boy!
The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!

"But thee, my flower, whose breath was given
By milder genii o'er the deep,
The spirits of the white man's heaven
Forbid not thee to weep:-

Nor will the Christian host,

Nor will thy father's spirit grieve
To see thee, on the battle's eve,
Lamenting take a mournful leave

Of her who loved thee most:

She was the rainbow to thy sight!
Thy sun-thy heaven-of lost delight !—

"To-morrow let us do or die!

But when the bolt of death is hurl'd, Ah! whither then with thee to fly, Shall Outalissi roam the world?

Seek we thy once loved home?— The hand is gone that cropt its flowers: Unheard their clock repeats its hours! Cold is the hearth within their bowers! And should we thither roam,

Its echoes, and its empty tread,

Would sound like voices from the dead!

"Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,
Whose streams my kindred nation quaff'd
And by my side, in battle true,

A thousand warriors drew the shaft?-
Ah! there in desolation cold,

The desert serpent dwells alone,

Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone,
And stones themselves to ruin grown,

Like me, are death-like old.

Then seek we not their camp-for there—
The silence dwells of my despair!

“But hark, the trump !-to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears:
Even from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears,

Amid the clouds that round us roll;
He bids my soul for battle thirst-
He bids me dry the last-the first—
The only tear that ever burst

From Outalissi's soul;
Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief."

CAMPBELL

73.-THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

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

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,

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

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-
But we left him alone with his glory!

WOLFE.

74.-BATTLE HYMN.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!

And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre ! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France !

And thou Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the

waters,

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,
For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls

annoy.

Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turn'd the chance of war
Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

O! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day,
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our

land;

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand: And, as we look'd on them, we thought of Seine's impurpled flood,

And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of

war,

To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The king is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant

crest.

He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;
He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and

high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from wing to

wing,

Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our lord

the king!"

"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amid the ranks of war,

And be your Oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din Offife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne