I see before me the Gladiator lie:

He leans upon his hand-his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony;

And his droop'd head sinks gradually low;
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder shower; and now
The arena swims around him-he is gone,
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the
wretch who won.

He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He reck'd not of the life he lost, nor prize,

But where his rude hut by the Danube lay-
There were his young barbarians all at play ;
There was their Dacian mother-he their sire,
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday :

All this rush'd with his blood.-Shall he expire, And unavenged?-Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!

THE BELLS OF SHANDON.

BY FATHER PROUT.

WITH deep affection

And recollection

I often think of

Those Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would,

In the days of childhood,

Fling round my cradle
Their magic spells.

On this I ponder
Where'er I wander,

And thus grow fonder,

Sweet Cork, of thee,-
With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand, on

The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells chiming
Full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in

Cathedral shrine;

While at a glib rate

Brass tongues would vibrate;

But all their music

Spoke naught like thine.

For memory, dwelling
On each proud swelling
Of thy belfry, knelling

Its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand, on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells tolling
Old Adrian's mole in,
Their thunder rolling

From the Vatican;
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets
Of Notre Dame;

But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter

Flings o'er the Tiber,

Pealing solemnly.

O! the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand, on

The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

There's a bell in Moscow;

While on tower and kiosk O

In Saint Sophia

The Turkman gets,

And loud in air

Calls men to prayer,

From the tapering summits
Of tall minarets.

Such empty phantom
I freely grant them;
But there's an anthem
More dear to me;

'Tis the bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand, on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.

HOHENLINDEN.

BY THOMAS Campbell.

ON Linden when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven;
Then rushed the steed, to battle driven;
And louder than the bolts of Heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainèd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry.

Few, few shall part where many meet; The snow shall be their winding-sheet; And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.