The drum's deep roll was heard afar,

The bugle wildly blew

Good night to Hulan and Hussar,

That garrison Saint Cloud.

The startled Naiads from the shade

With broken arms withdrew,

And silenced was that proud cascade,

The glory of Saint Cloud.

Nor could its silence rue,

When waked, to music of our own,

The echoes of Saint Cloud.

Slow Seine might hear each lovely note

Fall light as summer dew,

While through the moonless air they float, Prolong'd from fair Saint Cloud.

And sure a melody more sweet

His waters never knew,

Though music's self was wont to meet
With princes at Saint Cloud.

Nor then, with more delighted ear,

The circle round her drew,

Than ours, when gather'd round to hear
Our songstress at Saint Cloud.

Few happy hours poor mortals pass,-
Then give those hours their due,

And rank among the foremost class

Our evenings at Saint Cloud.

PARIS, Sept. 5, 1815.

FROM THE FRENCH.

IT chanced that Cupid on a season,
By Fancy urged, resolved to wed,
But could not settle whether Reason
Or Folly should partake his bed.

What does he then ?-Upon my life,
'Twas bad example for a deity-

He takes me Reason for his wife,
And Folly for his hours of gaiety.

Though thus he dealt in petty treason, He loved them both in equal measure ; Fidelity was born of Reason,

And Folly brought to bed of Pleasure.

SONG,

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE PITT CLUB

OF SCOTLAND.

O DREAD was the time, and more dreadful the omén,
When the brave on Marengo lay slaughter'd in vain,
And, beholding broad Europe bow'd down by her foemen,
PITT closed in his anguish the map of her reign!
Not the fate of broad Europe could bend his brave spirit
To take for his country the safety of shame ;

O then in her triumph remember his merit,
And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Round the husbandman's head, while he traces the furrow

The mists of the winter may mingle with rain,
He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow,

And sigh while he fears he has sow'd it in vain ;
He may die ere his children shall reap in their gladness,
But the blithe harvest-home shall remember his claim;
And their jubilee-shout shall be soften'd with sadness,
While they hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Though anxious and timeless his life was expended,
In toils for our country preserved by his care,
Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations ascended,
To light the long darkness of doubt and despair;
The storms he endured in our Britain's December,
The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'ercame,
In her glory's rich harvest shall Britain remember,
And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.