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Marshall'd once more at freedom's call,
They came to conquer or to fall,
Where he who conquer'd, he who fell,
Was deem'd a dead, or living Tell!
Such virtue had that patriot breathed,
So to the soil his soul bequeathed,
That wheresoe'er his arrows flew,
Heroes in his own likeness grew,
And warriors sprang from every sod
Which his awakening footstep trod.

And now the work of life and death
Hung on the passing of a breath;
The fire of conflict burnt within,
The battle trembled to begin;

Yet, while the Austrians held their ground,
Point for attack was nowhere found,
Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed,
The unbroken line of lances blazed;
That line 'twere suicide to meet,
And perish at their tyrants' feet,-
How could they rest within their graves,
And leave their homes, the homes of slaves?
Would they not feel their children tread
With clanging chains above their head?

It must not be: This day, this hour,
Annihilates th' oppressor's power;
All Switzerland is in the field,
She will not fly, she cannot yield-
She must not fall; her better fate
Here gives her an immortal date.
Few were the number she could boast;
But every freeman was a host,
And felt as though himself were he
On whose sole arm hung victory.

It did depend on one, indeed;
Behold him,-Arnold Winkelried!
There sounds not to the trump of fame
The echo of a nobler name.
Unmark'd he stood amid the throng.
In rumination deep and long,
Till you might see, with sudden grace,
The very thought come o'er his face,
And by the motion of his form
Anticipate the bursting storm;
And by th' uplifting of his brow

Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.

But 'twas no sooner thought than done,
The field was in a moment won :-

"Make way for liberty!" he cried,
Then ran, with arms extended wide,
As if his dearest friend to clasp;
Ten spears he swept within his grasp.

"Make way for liberty!" he cried;
Their keen points met from side to side:
He bow'd amongst them like a tree,
And thus made way for liberty.

Swift to the breach his comrades fly; "Make way for liberty!" they cry, And through the Austrian phalanx dart,

As rush'd the spears through Arnold's heart;
While, instantaneous as his fall,
Rout, ruin, panic, scatter'd all:


An earthquake could not overthrow A city with a surer blow.

Thus Switzerland again was free: Thus death made way for liberty!


FLOWER after flower comes forth in spring,
Bird after bird begins to sing;

Till copse and field in richest bloom,
Sparkle with dew, and breathe perfume,—
While hill and valley, all day long,
And half the night, resound with song,

So may acquaintance, one by one,

Come like spring-flowers to meet the sun,
And o'er these pages pure and white,

Kind words, kind thoughts, kind prayers indite,
Which sweeter odour shall dispense
Than vernal blossoms to the sense;
Till woods and streams less fair appear

Than autographs and sketches here:
-Or like the minstrels of the grove,
Pour strains of harmony and love,
The music made by heart to heart,
In which the least can bear a part,
More exquisite than all the notes
Of nightingales' and thrushes' throats.
Thus shall this book, from end to end,
Show in succession friend on friend,
By their own living hands portray'd,
In prose and verse, in light and shade,
By pen and pencil,-till her eye,
Who owns the volume shall descry
On many a leaf some lovely trace,
Reminding of a lovelier face!
With here and there the hur bler line,
Recalling such a phiz as mine.


Ut pictura, poesis.-Hor. de Art. Poet. Two lovely sisters here unite To blend improvement with delight; Painting and poetry engage

By turns to deck the Album's page.

Here may each glowing picture be
The quintessence of poesy,
With skill so exquisitely wrought,
As if the colours were pure thought,-
Thought from the bosom's inmost cell,
By magic tints made visible,
That, while the eye admires, the mind
Itself, as in a glass, may find.

And may the poet's verse, alike,
With all the power of painting strike;
So freely, so divinely trace,

In every line the line of grace;
And beautify, with such sweet art,
The image-chamber of the heart,

3D 3

That fancy here may gaze her fill,
Forming fresh scenes and shapes at will,
Where silent words alone appear,
Or, borrowing voice, but touch the ear.

Yet humble prose with these shall stand,
Friends, kindred, comrades, hand in hand,
All in this fair enclosure meet,

The lady of the book to greet,
And, with the pen or pencil, make

These leaves love-tokens, for her sake.
Sheffield, 1828.




WITHIN this curious case

Time's sentinel I place,

Who, while calm unconscious slumber
Shuts creation from mine eyes,
Through the silent gloom shall number
Every moment as it flies,

And record, at dawn of day,
Thrice ten thousand pass'd away.

On each of these my breath
May pause 'twixt life and death;
By a subtler line depending
Than the ray of twinkling light
Which the smallest star is sending
Every moment through the night;
For, on films more finely spun,
All things hang beneath the sun.

Rapt through a wildering dream,
Awake in sleep I seem;
Sorrow wrings my soul with anguish,
Joy expands my throbbing breast;
Now overwhelm'd with care I languish,
Now serene and tranquil rest:
Morning comes; and all between
Is as though it ne'er had been.

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Some sweet hope, some hallow'd pleasure,
From remembrance ne'er to part;
Hourly blessings swell the treasure
Hidden in her grateful heart;
And may every moment cast
Brighter glory on her last!

EMBLEM of eternity,
Unbeginning, endless sea!

Let me launch my soul on thee.

Sail, nor keel, nor helm, nor oar,
Need I, ask I, to explore

Thine expanse from shore to shore.

By a single glance of thought,
Thy whole realm's before me brought,
Like the universe, from naught.

All thine aspects now I view,
Ever old, yet ever new;
Time nor tide thy powers subdue.

All thy voices now I hear;
Sounds of gladness, grandeur, fear
Meet and mingle in mine ear.

All thy wonders are reveal'd:
Treasures hidden in thy field!
From the birth of nature seal'd.

But thy depths I search not now,
Nor thy limpid surface plough
With a foam-repelling prow.

Eager fancy, unconfined,
In a voyage of the mind
Sweeps along thee like the wind.

Here a breeze, I skim thy plain;
There a tempest, pour amain
Thunder, lightning, hail, and rain.
Where the billows cease to roll,
Round the silence of the pole,
Thence set out my venturous soul!

See, by Greenland cold and wild,
Rocks of ice eternal piled;
Yet the mother loves her child;

And the wildernesses drear
To the native's heart are dear;
All life's charities dwell here.

Next, on lonely Labrador,
Let me hear the snow-falls roar,
Devastating all before.

Yet even here, in glens and coves,
Man, the heir of all things, roves,
Feasts and fights, and laughs and loves.

But a brighter vision breaks

O'er Canadian woods and lakes;

-These my spirit soon forsakes.

Land of exiled liberty,

Where our fathers once were free; Brave New England, hail to thee!

Pennsylvania, while thy flood
Waters fields unbought with blood,
Stand for peace as thou hast stood.

The West Indies I behold,
Like the Hesperides of old,
-Trees of life, with fruits of gold.

No a curse is on the soil,
Bonds and scourges, tears and toil,
Man degrade, and earth despoil.

Horror-struck, I turn away,
Coasting down the Mexique bay;
Slavery there has lost the day.

Loud the voice of Freedom spoke;
Every accent split a yoke,
Every word a dungeon broke.

South America expands
Mountain forests, river lands,
And a nobler race demands.

And a nobler race arise,

Stretch their limbs, unclose their eyes,
Claim the earth, and seek the skies.

Gliding through Magellan's Straits,
Where two oceans ope their gates,
What a spectacle awaits!

The immense Pacific smiles
Pound ten thousand little isles,
-Haunts of violence and wiles.

But the powers of darkness yield,
For the cross is in the field,
And the light of life reveal'd.
Rays from rock to rock it darts,
Conquers adamantine hearts,
And immortal bliss imparts.
North and west, receding far
From the evening's downward star,
Now I mount Aurora's car,-

Pale Siberia's deserts shun,
From Kamtschatka's headlands run,
South and east, to meet the sun.

Jealous China, strange Japan,
With bewilder'd thought I scan,
-They are but dead seas of man.

Ages in succession find.

Forms unchanging, stagnant mind; And the same they leave behind.

Lo! the eastern Cyclades, Phoenix nests, and halcyon seas; But I tarry not with these.

Pass we low New Holland's shoals, Where no ample river rolls; -World of undiscover'd souls!

Bring them forth-'tis Heaven's decree: Man, assert thy dignity!

Let not brutes look down on thee.

Either India next is seen,

With the Ganges stretch'd between:
Ah! what horrors there have been!
War, disguised as commerce, came;
Britain, carrying sword and flame,
Won an empire, lost her name.

But that name shall be restored,
Law and justice wield her sword,
And her God be here adored.

By the Gulf of Persia sail,
Where the true-love nightingale
Wooes the rose in every vale.

Though Arabia charge the breeze
With the incense of her trees,"
On I press o'er southern seas.

Cape of storms! thy spectre's fled,
And the angel hope, instead,
Lights from heaven upon thy head.
Where thy table mountain stands,
Barbarous hordes, from dreary sands,
Bless the sight, with lifted hands.
St. Helena's dungeon-keep
Scowls defiance o'er the deep-
There a hero's relics sleep.

Who he was and how he fell,
Europe, Asia, Afric, tell;

On that theme all times shall dwell.

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Judah's cities are forlorn,

Lebanon and Carmel shorn,

Zion trampled down with scorn.

Greece! thine ancient lamp is spent ;
Thou art thine own monument;
But the sepulchre is rent,

And a wind is on the wing,
At whose breath new heroes spring,
Sages teach, and poets sing.
Italy, thy beauties shroud
In a gorgeous evening cloud :
Thy refulgent head is bow'd.

Rome, in ruins, lovely still,
From her Capitolian hill

Bids thee, mourner! weep thy fill.

Yet where Roman genius reigns,
Roman blood must warm the veins;
-Look well, tyrants! to your chains.

Feudal realm of old romance!
Spain, thy lofty front advance,
Grasp thy shield, and couch thy lance.

At the fire-flash of thine eye,
Giant bigotry shall fly;
At thy voice, oppression die.

Lusitania from the dust
Shake thy locks; thy cause is just-
Strike for freedom, strike and trust.
France! I hurry from thy shore;
Thou art not the France of yore;
Thou art new-born France no more.

Great thou wast, and who like thee?
Then mad-drunk with liberty;
Now, thou'rt neither great nor free.

Sweep by Holland, like the blast;
One quick glance at Denmark cast,
Sweden, Russia ;-all is past.

Elbe nor Weser tempt my stay;
Germany! beware the day
When thy schoolmen bear the sway.

Now to thee, to thee I fly,
Fairest isle beneath the sky,
To my heart as in mine eye!

I have seen them one by one,
Every shore beneath the sun,
And my voyage now is done.
While I bid them all be bless'd,
Britain thou'rt my home-my rest;
My own land, I love thee best.


WALTER SCOTT was born in Edinburgh, on the 15th of August, 1771. His father was a writer to the signet, and of ancient and honourable descent. Almost from his birth until the age of sixteen, he was afflicted with ill health; and either from the weakness of his constitution, or, as some assert, from an accident occasioned by the carelessness of his nurse, his right foot was injured, and he was lame during his life. His early days were passed among the hills and dales of the borders-famous in war and verse"-" where," we quote from Allan Cunningham, "almost every stone that stands above the ground is the record of some skirmish, or single combat; and every stream, although its waters be so inconsiderable as scarcely to moisten the pasture through which they run, is renowned in song and in ballad." Perhaps to the happy chance of his residence in a district so fertile in legendary lore, the world is indebted for the vast legacy of wealth he bequeathed to it. In 1783, he entered the University of Edinburgh; and in 1792, became an advocate at the Scottish bar: but after a few years' attendance at the courts, quitted it, in order to devote himself to literature. He had, however, reached his 25th year, before he manifested any desire, or rather intention, to contend for fame in a path so intricate; and as he himself states, his first attempt ended in a transfer of his printed sheets to the service of the trunk-maker. Though discouraged, he was not disheartened. In 1802, "The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border" obtained a more fortunate destiny; and about three years afterwards the publication of The Lay of the Last Minstrel completely established the fame of the writer. From the appearance of this poem, the life of the poet, until towards the close of it, is little else than a history of his writings. Marmion issued from the press in 1808; The Lady of the Lake, in 1810; Don Roderick, in 1811; Rokeby, in 1813; The Lord of the Isles, in 1814; The Bridal of Triermain, and Harold the Dauntless, appeared anonymously; the former, in 1813, and the latter, in 1817. The publication of his novels and romances commenced with Waverley, in 1814. In 1820, Walter Scott was created a baronet of the United Kingdom. In January, 1826, his publishers became bankrupts; it produced a feeling of the deepest sorrow,-not only in Edinburgh, but throughout the kingdom, when it was ascertained that, through their failure, he was involved in pecuniary responsibilities to a ruinous

extent. He encountered adversity with manly fortitude; asked and obtained from his creditors no other boon than time; and in about four years had actually paid off nearly £70,000 of the debt. The price of almost superhuman labour was, however, to be exacted. In 1831 he was attacked with gradual paralysis: in the autumn of that year he was prevailed upon to visit the more genial climate of the south of Europe;-the experiment was unsuccessful in restoring him to health: he returned to Abbotsford, and died there on the 21st of September, 1832. His loss was mourned, not only by his own country, but in every portion of the civilized globe; for his fame had spread throughout all parts of it: and there is scarcely a language into which his works have not been translated. The kindness of his heart, the benevolence of his disposition, the thorough goodness of his nature, were appreciated by all who had the privilege of his acquaintance; but his genius is the vast and valuable property of mankind.

In person, he was tall, and had the appearance of a powerful and robust man. His countenance has been rendered familiar by artists in abundance; the justest notion of it is conveyed by the bust of Chantry. Its expression was peculiarly benevolent; his forehead was broad, and remarkably


We have left ourselves but little space to comment upon the poetry of Sir Walter Scott; his fame as a poet was eclipsed by his reputation as a novelist; and the appearance of a star of greater magnitude drew from him, by degrees, the popularity he had so long engrossed. Yet we venture to hazard an opinion, that if it be possible for either to be forgotten, his poems will outlive his prose; and that Waverley and Ivanhoe will perish before Marmion and The Lady of the Lake. We can find no rare and valuable quality in the former that we may not find in the latter. A deeply interesting and exciting story, glorious and true pictures of scenery, fine and accurate portraits of character, clear and impressive accounts of ancient customs, details of battles-satisfying to the fancy; yet capable of enduring the sternest test of truth-are to be found in the one class as well as in the other. In addition, we have the most graceful and harmonious verse; and the style is undoubtedly such as equally to delight those who possess and those who are without a refined poetical taste.


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