THE WAR-SONG OF THE POLES.

The Muscovite! his standard waves

Above our soil,—his godless slaves

Gather from far,

Then, welcome war,

Its triumphs, or its graves!

Welcome the din of the mustering camp,

And charging squadrons' thundering tramp,
And the lightning-rays

Of the combat's blaze,

That blood alone shall damp!

If Earth has a moment of ecstacy,

'Tis when we press to the van of the free ;

When we mock Death's power,

In its direst hour,

With the host of Liberty.

Now hark! her gathering-trump is blown, All-wakeful as the archangel's own.

'Tis the very breath

Of life and wrath

That calls us. Freemen, on!

The despot's trusted bulwarks all,
Before our ruining voice, shall fall,

As the towers were rent,

When Israel sent

His shout through the leaguered wall.

The peopled dungeons, where we tread,

Shall yawn, and yield their living dead;

And the dragon-den

Of murder, then,

Shall reek with vengeance, red.

By every stainless patriot's name,

By every scene of hallowed fame,

We hail the strife!

War to the knife,

But never bonds or shame!

May we resign our latest breath

Where glory lights the way to death! May we fall with the brave,

And sleep in their grave,

In the tombless turf beneath!

And may our awful passing-knell
Ring in the conflict's loudest swell,
In the stunning shout

Of onset and rout,

And the cannon's mortal peal!

When a thousand battle-yells reply

To the weapon-clash, rejoicingly,

And the name of our land

Nerves every hand,

And every heart beats high.

May the last glance of our failing sight

Behold the victory of the right,

And the last sound we hear

Be the conquering cheer

Of its champions, in their might.

And let those glorious ones appear
The only mourners o'er our bier ;
Our names be known

With theirs, alone,

Through every future year.

A WINTER-NIGHT'S DREAM.

Jours charmans, quand je songe à vos heureux instans,
Je pense remonter le fleuve de mes ans,

Et mon cœur enchanté, sur sa rive fleurie,

Respire encor l'air pur du matin de la vie.-Les Fastes.

Ah me, I dreamed a sweet dream, yesternight,
Which filled my sleep with a remembered light,
And did unburden me of grievous years,
Restoring all my ravaged opulence

Of tender thought, quick smiles, and pangless tears,
Until I felt, in every buoyant sense,

A backward wafting to a blissful shore,

A resurrection into life, once more!

Meseemed it was a morn o' the golden time,

A shining wakefulness, a joyous prime,