Byron. THE DYING GLADIATOR. I see before me the Gladiator lie: He leans upon his hand-his manly brow Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes All this rushed with his blood-Shall he expire X WATERLOO. There was a sound of revelry by night, Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind, No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with death's prophetic-ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone would quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise! And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near the beat of the alarming drum, Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips-"The foe! They come, they come!" And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose! And Evans, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Of living valour, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse,-friend, foe,-in one red burial blent! DRACHENFELLS. The castled crag of Drachenfells Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, |