'Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or death,
When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath ;
They call to the dirk, the claymore and the targe,
To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.

Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his ire!
May the blood in his veins flow like currents of fire!
Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore,
Or die like your sires, and endure it no more!

FINIS,

Printed by T. C. Hansard, Peterboro'-court, Fleet-street, London

And now that heart's rich tide is chill,
That horn is silent on the hill,

The gallant chace is done;

Scatter'd and sunk, the mountain band
Threw the loved rifle from their hand,
The soul of fight is gone! ·

But God is all.-Vain warrior-skill,
Vain the high soul, the mighty will,
Before the word of Heav'n :-
The helm that on the chieftain's brow,
Flash'd fire against the morning's glow,
His blood may dim at ev'n.

Yet, Hofer in that hour of ill
Thine was a brighter laurel still
Than the red field e'er gave;
The crown immortal liberty
Gives to the few that dare to die
And seek her in the grave.

Who saw, as levelled the Chasseur
His deadly aim, the shade of fear
Pass o'er the Hero's brow?
Who saw his dark eyes' martial gaze
Turn from the muskets' volley'd blaze
That laid him calm and low?

ON RAUCH'S BUST OF QUEEN LOUISA OF PRUSSIA.

FROM THE SAME.

How lovely still, though now no more
Thy locks in auburn beauty pour;
No more thine eye, of humid blue,
Beams like the star thro' evening dew:
Forbid alike to beam and weep,

Those orbs are closed in marble sleep,
Those braids in moveless marble twine;
Princess! thy throne is now thy shrine.
Yet, matchless as in life, the spell
Loves on that pallid lip to dwell;
- And still the soul's immortal glow
Is radiant on that dazzling brow.
Soft be thy slumbers, soft and deep,
Till start thy people from their sleep;
Till thousand beacons, blazing bright,
Shake their wild splendors on the night;