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The loud war trumpet woke the morn,
Arouse for death or victory;
Hung on the bold declivity.
The serried bay’nets glittering stood,
Reeld in the flickering canopy.
Rush'd to the dreadful revelry.
Whoever may have been the author, The Battle of Busaco is a song of considerable merit, and undoubtedly the production of a master in poetry. It is evidently done in the style of Mr. Campbell's Hohenlinden, and though the imitation must be acknowledged to be in some respects inferior to the model, yet still it possesses particular, nay even distinguished excellence in its kind. By a variety of bold picturesque allusions, expressed by terms most appropriate and impressive, the poet introduces, describes, and concludes the interesting scenes of action, of contest, and of death. With a concern which it is utterly impossible to suppress, we hear the awfully comprehensive signal to engage, “ Arouse for death or victory." In harsh grating sounds, which enter the very spul, we are informed of legions “ Rushing to the dreadful revelry," while the poet in a manner highly significant, personifies“ Red Ruin riding triumphantly." The whole, in fact, is a highly finished effusion, eminently calculated to commemorate the affair to which it refers, and by its impulse to rouse the undaunted and heroic to the boldest “ Feats of chivalry."
The pause is o'er, the fatal shock,
Red ruin rides triumphantly;
Prone on the battle's boundary.
The thistle wav'd her bonnet blue,
Busaco in thy heraldry;
Rous'd at their feats of chivalry..
How still is the night, and how deathlike the gloom,
Which earth's lonely bounds now enshrouds, No star sparkles bright, and retir'd is the moon
From her sentinel-watch in the clouds..
Where now are the flowers that embroider'd the vale,
And the hills which yon hamlet enclos'd, And where are the wild-woods that wav'd in the gale,
On whose tops the dark ravens repos'd ?
For a moment they're hid, but soon shall the veil
Which o'ershadows them vanish away!
And their beauty again I'll survey.
But where are the thoughts that once gladden'd my heart,
And the hopes I so fondly have cherish'd ;
Alas! they for ever are perish'd.
Yes, for ever!-no more shall Eliza's bright eye,
The sun of my soul, shed its light; Its heaven-born lustre has fled in a sigh,
And left my sad bosom in night.
m imitation of the Italian,
Love under friendship’s vesture white,
Mine be a cot beside the hill;
The swallow oft beneath my thatch,
Around my ivy'd porch shall spring
The village church among the trees,
AN ITALIAN SONG.
Dear is my little native vale ;
To every passing villager.
In orange groves and myrtle bowers,