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Each look'd to sun, and stream, and plain,
As what they ne'er might see again;
Then, foot, and point, and eye opposed,
In dubious strife they darkly closed.

Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu,
That on the field his targe he threw,
Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide
Had death so often dash'd aside;

For, train'd abroad his arms to wield,
Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield.
He practised every pass and ward,
To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard;
While less expert, though stronger far,
The Gael maintain'd unequal war
Three times in closing strife they stood,
And thrice the Saxon sword drank blood;
No stinted draught, no scanty tide,
The gushing flood the tartans dyed
Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,

And shower'd his blows like wintry rain;
And, as firm rock, or castle-roof,
Against the winter shower is proof,
The foe invulnerable still

Foiled his wild rage by steady skill;
Till at advantage ta'en, his brand
Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand,
And, backwards borne upon the lee,
Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.

"Now yield thee, or, by Him who made

The world, thy heart's blood dies my blade!"

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Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy!

Let recreant yield who fears to die."

Like adder darting from his coil,
Like wolf that dashes through the toil,
Like mountain-cat who guards her young,
Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung,
Received, but reck'd not of a wound,
And locked his arms his foeman round.-
Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!
No maiden's hand is round thee thrown!
That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,
Through bars of brass and triple steel!
They tug, they strain;-down, down they go.
The Gael above, Fitz-James below.
The Chieftain's gripe his throat compress'd,
His knee was planted in his breast;
His clotted locks he backward threw

From blood and mist to clear his sight,
Then gleam'd aloft his dagger bright!
But hate and fury ill supplied

The stream of life's exhausted tide,
And all too late the advantage came,
To turn the odds of deadly game;
For, while the dagger gleam'd on high,
Reel'd soul and sense, reel'd brain and eye
Down came the blow! but in the heath
The erring blade found bloodless sheath.
The struggling foe may now unclasp
The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp;
Unwounded from the dreadful close,
But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.

He falter'd thanks to Heaven for life
Redeem'd, unhoped, from desperate strife;
Next on his foe his look he cast,
Whose every gasp appeared his last;
In Roderick's gore he dipp'd the braid.-
"Poor Blanche! thy wrongs are dearly paid;

Yet with thy foe must die or live,
The praise that Faith and Valor give."

WINTER IN COPENHAGEN.

ERE yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow,
Or winds began through hazy skies to blow,
At evening a keen eastern breeze arose,
And the descending rain unsullied froze.
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew,
The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view
The face of nature in a rich disguise,

And heightened every object to my eyes:
For every shrub and every blade of grass,
And every pointed thorn, seemed wrought in glass;
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show,
While through the ice the crimson berries glow.
The thick sprung reeds, the wat'ry marshes yield,
Seem polish'd lances in a hostile field,

The stag, in limpid currents, with surprise,
Sees chrystal branches on his forehead rise:

The spreading oak, the beech, the tow'ring pine,
Glaz'd over, in the freezing æther shine.

The frighted birds the rattliug branches shun,
Which wave and glitter in the distant sun.
When if a sudden gust of wind arise,

The brittle forest into atoms flies,

The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends,
And in a spangled shower the prospect ends.

THE SACKING OF PRAGUE.

Oh! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceas'd awhile,
And Hope, thy sister, ceas'd with thee to smile,
When leagu'd oppression pour'd to Northern wars
Her whisker'd pandoors and her fierce huzzars,
Wav'd her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
Peal'd her loud drum, 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,
Wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid,-
Oh! Heav'n he cried, my bleeding country save!
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains,
Rise, 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

Firm-paced, and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm;
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 toll'd their last alarm!—

In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!

From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew :-
Oh bloodiest picture in the Book of Time,
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime:
Found not a gen❜rous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!

Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear,
Clos'd her bright eye, and curb'd her high career;
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell:
And Freedom shrieked-as Kosciusko fell!

The sun went down, nor ceas'd the carnage there,
Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air—
On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow,
His blood-dy'd waters murmuring far below;
The storm prevails, the rampart yields away,
Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay!
Hark! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall,
A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call!
Earth shook-red meteors flash'd along the sky,
And conscious Nature shudder'd at the cry!

Oh! Righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave,
Why slept the sword Omnipotent, to save?
Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod,
That smote the foes of Zion and of God,

That crush'd proud Ammon, when his iron car
Was yok'd in wrath, and thunder'd from afar ?

Where was the storm that slumber'd till the host

Of blood-stain'd Pharaoh left their trembling coast;
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow,
And heav'd an ocean on their march below!

Departed spirits of the mighty dead!

Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled!

Friends of the world! restore your swords to man,
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van!

Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone,
And make her arm puissant as your own!
Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return

Yes! thy pro d lords, unpitied land! shall see
That man hath yet a soul-and dare be free!
A little while, along thy sad'ning plains,
The star less night of desolation reigns;
Truth shall restore the light by Nature giv'n,
And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heav'n!,
Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurl'd,—
Her name, her nature, wither'd from the world!

THE PILOT.

ANGEL of life! thy glittering wings explore
Earth's loneliest bounds, and Ocean's wildest shore.
Lo! to the wintry winds the pilot yields
His bark, careering o'er unfathom❜d fields;
Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar,

Where Andes, giant of the western star,

With meteor standard to the winds unfurl'd,

Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the world.

Now far he sweeps, where scarce a summer smiles
On Behring's rocks, or Greenland's naked isles;
Cold on his midnight watch the breezes blow,
From wastes that slumber in eternal snow;
And waft, across the waves' tumultuous roar,
The wolf's long howl from Oonalaska's shore.

Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm,
Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form!
Rocks, waves, and winds, the shatter'd bark delay;
Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away.

But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep,
And sing to charm the spirit of the deep.
Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole,
Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul!
His native hills that rise in happier climes,
The grot that heard his song of other times,
His cottage-home, his bark of slender sail,
His glassy lake, and broom wood-blossom'd vale,
Rush on his thought; he sweeps before the wind,
Treads the lov'd shore he sigh'd to leave behind;
Meets at each step a friend's familiar face,
And flies at last to Helen's long embrace;
Wipes from her cheek the rapture speaking tear,
And clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear!
While, long neglected, but at length caress'd

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