Reverberate along that vale,
More suited to the shepherd's tale:
Though few the numbers—theirs the strife,
That neither spares nor speaks for life !
Ah! fondly youthful hearts can press,
To seize and share the dear caress :
But Love itself could never pant
For all that Beauty sighs to grant
With half the fervour Hate bestows
Upon the last embrace of foes,
When grappling in the fight they fold
Those arms that ne'er shall loose their hold:
Friends meet to part; Love laughs at faith ;
True foes, once met, are join'd till death!

AN ASSAULT ON A CITY BY NIGHT.
The night was dark, and the thick mist allowed

Nought to be seen save the artillery's flame,
Which arched the horizon like a fiery cloud,

And in the Danube's waters shone the same,
A mirrored Hell! The volleying roar, and loud

Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame
The ear far more than thunder ; for Heaven's flashes
Spare or smite rarely—Man's make millions ashes !
The column ordered on the assault scarce passed

Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises, When up the bristling Moslem rose at last,

Answering the Christian thunders with like voices; Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraced,

Which rocked as 'twere beneath the mighty noises ; While the whole rampart blazed like Ætna, when The restless Titan hickups in his den. And one enormous shout of “ Allah !” rose

In the same moment, loud as even the roar.

Of War's most mortal engines, to their foes

Hurling defiance: city, stream, and shore Resounding “ Allah !” and the clouds which close

With thickening canopy the conflict o'er, Vibrate to the Eternal name. Hark! through All sounds it pierceth, “ Allah! Allah ! Hu * !”

A SCENE AFTER A BATTLE. Upon a taken bastion where there lay

Thousands of slaughtered men, a yet warm group Of murdered women, who had found their way

To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop
And shudder ;-while, as beautiful as May,

A female child of ten years tried to stoop
And hide her little palpitating breast
Amidst the bodies killed in bloody rest.
Two villanous Cossacques pursued the child

With flashing eyes and weapons : matched with The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild them

Has feelings pure and polished as a gem,
The bear is civilized, the wolf is mild :

And whom for this at last must we condemn ?
Their natures ? or their sovereigns, who employ
All arts to teach their subjects to destroy ?
Their sabres glittering o'er her little head,

Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright, Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead :

When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight, I shall not say exactly what he said,

Because it might not solace“ ears polite;"

* Allah Hu ! is properly the war cry of the Mussul. mans, and they dwell long on the last syllable, which gives it a very wild and peculiar effect.

But what he did, was to lay on their backs,
The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacques.
One's hip he slashed, and split the other's shoulder, ?

And drove them with their brutal yells to seek
If there might be chirurgeons who could solder

The wounds they richly merited, and shriek Their baffled rage and pain ; while waxing colder

As he turned o'er each pale and gory cheek,
Don Juan raised his little captive from
The heap a moment more had made her tomb.
And she was chill as they, and on her face

A slender streak of blood announced how near
Her fate had been to that of all her race ;

For the same blow which laid her mother here
Had scarred her brow, and left its crimson trace

As the last link with all she had held dear;
But else unhurt, she opened her large eyes,
And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise.
Just at this moment, while their eyes were fixed

Upon each other, with dilated glance,
In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mixed

With joy to save, and dread of some mischance
Unto his protegee; while her's, transfixed

With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, Like to a lighted alabaster vase.

THE FATE OF BEAUTY.
As rising on its purple wing
The insect-queen of eastern spring,
O’er emerald meadows of Kashmeer
Invites the young pursuer near,

And leads him on from flower to flower
A weary chase and wasted hour,
Then leaves him, as it soars on high,
With panting heart and tearful eye-
So Beauty lures the full-grown child,
With hue as bright, and wing as wild ;
A chase of idle hopes and fears,
Begun in folly, closed in tears.
If won, to equal ills betray'd,
Woe waits the insect and the maid ;
A life of pain, the loss of peace,
From infant's play, and man's caprice :
The lovely toy so fiercely sought
Hath lost its charm by being caught,
For every touch that wooed its stay
Hath brushed its brightest hues away,
Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone,
'Tis left to fly or fall alone.
With wounded wing, or bleeding breast,
Ah! where shall either victim rest ?
Can this with faded pinion soar
From rose to tulip as before ?
Or Beauty, blighted in an hour,
Find joy within her broken bower ?
No: gayer insects fluttering by
Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die,
And lovelier things have mercy shown
To every failing but their own,

And every woe a tear can claim
· Except an erring sister's shame,

BLUES AND AMATEUR AUTHORS. They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism ;

Nor write, and so they don't affect the muse;

Were never caught in epigram or witticism,

Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews,
In harams learning soon would make a pretty schism !

But luckily these beauties are no “ blues ;”
No bustling Botherby's have they to show 'em
“ That charming passage in the last new poem.”
No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme,

Who having angled all his life for fame,
And getting but a nibble at a time,

Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same
Small “ Triton of the minnows,” the sublime

Of mediocrity, the furious tame,
The echo's echo, usher of the school
Of female wits, boy bards in short, a fool !
A talking oracle of awful phrase,

The approving “Good !” (by no means good in law) Humming like flies around the newest blaze,

The bluest of blue bottles you e'er saw, Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise,

Gorging the little fame he gets all raw, Translating tongues he knows not even by letter, And sweating plays so middling, bad were better. One hates an author that's all author, fellows

In foolscap uniforms, turned up with ink, So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous,

One don't know what to say to them, or think,
Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows;

Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink
Are preferable to these shreds of paper,
These unquench'd snuffings of the midnight taper.
Of these same we see several, and of others,

Men of the world, who know the world like men,