PART X. - LYRICAL AND NARRATIVE PIECES.

I. - THE DRUM.

YONDER is a little drum, hanging on the wall;

Dusty wreaths and tattered flags round about it fall.

A shepherd youth on Cheviot's hills watched the sheep whose skin
A cunning workman wrought, and gave the little drum its din:
And happy was the shepherd-boy whilst tending of his fold,
Nor thought he there was in the world a spot like Cheviot's wold.

And so it was for many a day; but change with time will come; And he- (alas for him the day!) - he heard the little drum. "Follow," said the drummer-boy, "would you live in story! For he who strikes a foeman down wins a wreath of glory.' "Rub-a-dub! and rub-a-dub!"* the drummer beats away. The shepherd lets his bleating flock on Cheviot wildly stray.

On Egypt's arid wastes of sand the shepherd now is lying;
Around him many a parching tongue for "water" faintly crying:
O, that he were on Cheviot's hills, with velvet verdure spread,
Or lying 'mid the blooming heath where oft he made his bed!
Or could he drink of those sweet rills that trickle to its vales,
Or breathe once more the balminess of Cheviot's mountain gales!
At length upon his wearied eyes the mists of slumber come,
And he is in his home again—till wakened by the drum!
"Take arms! take arms ! his leader cries; "the hated foe-
man's nigh!"

Guns loudly roar, steel clanks on steel, and thousands fall to die.
The shepherd's blood makes red the sand: "O! water— give

me some!

My voice might reach a friendly ear -but for that little drum!"

'Mid moaning men, and dying men, the drummer kept his way, And many a one by "glory" lured did curse the drum that day. "Rub-a-dub! and rub-a-dub!" the drummer beat aloud The shepherd died! and, ere the morn, the hot sand was his shroud. And this is "glory"?—Yes; and still will man the tempter follow, Nor learn that glory, like its drum, is but a sound-and hollow. ANON. (altered).

*The speaker may here imitate the action of a drummer.

THE midnight hour was drawing on;
Hushed in repose lay Babylon.
But in the palace of the king

The herd of courtiers shout and sing:
There, in his royal banquet-hall,
Belshazzar holds high festival.
The servants sit in glittering rows,

The beakers are drained, the red wine flows;
The beakers clash, and the servants sing, —
A pleasing sound to the moody king.

The king's cheeks flush, and his wild eyes shine;
His spirit waxes bold with wine;

Until, by maddening passion stung,

He blasphemes God with impious tongue;
And his proud heart swells as he wildly raves,
'Mid shouts of applause from his fawning slaves.
He spoke the word, and his eyes flashed flame!
The ready servant went and came;
Vessels of massy gold he bore,
Jehovah's temple's plundered store.

And, seizing a consecrated cup,
The king, in his fury, fills it up:
He fills, and hastily drains it dry,
From his foaming lips leaps forth the cry,
"Jehovah! at thee my scorn I fling!

I am Belshazzar, Babylon's king!'

Yet scarce had the impious words been said,
When the king's heart shrank with a secret dread:
Suddenly died the shout and yell

A death-like hush on the tumult fell.

And, lo on the wall, as they gazed aghast,

What seemed like a human hand went past,

And wrote. and wrote, in sight of all,

Letters of fire upon the wall!

The king sat still, with a stōny look,

His trembling knees with terror shook :

The menial throng nor spoke nor stirred;
Fear froze their blood, no sound was heard!
The Magians came; but none of all

Could read the writing on the wall.

THE RED KING'S WARNING.

At length, to solve those words of flame,
Fearless, but meek, the prophet came;
One glance he gave, and all was clear!
King! there is reason in thy fear;
Those words proclaim, thy empire ends-
The day of wrath and woe impends:
Weighed in the balance, wanting found,
Thou and thy kingdom strike the ground."-
That night, by the servants of his train,
Belshazzar, the mighty king, was slain !

301

HEINE (altered).

Historians relate that the death of William Rufus, in the New Forest, was
preceded by several predictions clearly announcing his fate.
WITH hound and horn the wide New Forest rung,
When William Rufus, at the bright noon-day,
Girt by his glittering train, to saddle sprung,
And to the chase spurred forth his gallant gray.
O'er hill, o'er dale, the hunters held their track;
But that gray courser, fleeter than the wind,
Was foremost still. and as the king looked back,
Save Tyrrell, all were far and far behind.
Slow through a distant pass the train defiled;
Alone the king rode on when in mid course,
Lo! rushed across his path a figure wild,

And on his bridle-rein with giant force

*

Seized then swift pointing to a blighted oak,
Thus to the astonished king his warning spoke.

"Curb thy race of headlong speed!
Backward, backward turn thy steed!
Death is on thy onward track,

Turn, O, turn thy courser back!

"See'st thou, King, yon aged tree,-
Blighted now, alas! like me?

Once it bloomed in strength and pride,
And my cottage stood beside;

"Till on Hastings' fatal field

England's baleful doom was sealed!

* The right hand should be here thrust forward, as in the act of grasping the bridle, while the other hand should be extended, pointing to the supposed object. There should be a suspensive pause at "Seized."

Till the Saxon stooped to own
Norman lord on English throne!

"Where the forest holds domain,
Then were fields of golden grain;
Hamlets then and churches stood
Where we see the wide waste wood.

"But the Norman king must here
Have his wood to hunt his deer.
What were we?. He waved his hand,
And we vanished from the land.

Fiercely burned my rising ire When I saw our cots on fire! When ourselves were forced to fly, Or to beg, or rob, or die!

"Then on William's head abhorred, Then my deepest curse I poured. Turning to this aged oak,

Thus in madness wild I spoke :

"Powers of Hell, or Earth, or Air,
Grant an injured Saxon's prayer!
Ne'er may one of William's race
Pass alive this fatal place!

"Powers of Hell, or Earth, or Air,
Give a sign ye grant my prayer!
Give! O, give!'While yet I spoke,
Lightning struck yon witness oak!

"Shun, O King! thy certain lot!
Fly with speed the fatal spot!
Here to death thy uncle passed;
Here thy nephew breathed his last!

"Yes, my curse has worked too well!
Sorrow seized me when they fell.
Would, O, would I might revoke
What in madness wild I spoke!

"Monarch! to my words give heed, Backward, -backward turn thy steed! Danger, death, beset thee round;

Chase not on the fated ground!"

ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES.

Away," fierce William cried, “ill-boding seer! Think'st thou to strike thy sovereign's heart with fear? Think'st thou with idle threats to bar my way?

I scorn thy warning! On my gallant gray!" He plunged his spurs deep in his courser's side, When from the blighted oak, as he advanced, Right to the monarch's heart an arrow glanced: The blood gushed forth, he FELL! he GROANED!

303

ANON. (altered).

IV. ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES.
Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are!
From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins,
That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war,
Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains!

On, on, like a cloud, through their beautiful vales,
Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er!-
Fill, fill up their wide, sunny waters, ye sails,

From each slave-mart of Europe, and shadow their shore!

Let their fate be a mock-word; let men of all lands

Laugh out, with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,
When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands
Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls!

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven,
Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be,

To think as the doomed often think of that heaven

They had once within reach—that they might have been free!

When the world stood in hope, when a spirit, that breathed
The fresh hour of the olden time, whispered about,
And the swords of all Italy, half-way unsheathed,
But waited one conquering cry, to flash out,

When around you the shades of your mighty in fame,
Filicajas and Petrarchs, seemed bursting to view,
And their words and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame
Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you,-

O, shame! that in such a proud moment of life,

Worth the history of

ages, when had you but hurled

One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife

Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world,