[From Childe Harold.] THERE was a sound of revelry by And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love, to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriagebell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! Did ye not hear it ?- No: 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet But, hark! - that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is-it is the cannon's opening roar! THOMAS CAMPBELL. HALLOWED GROUND. WHAT'S hallowed ground? earth a clod Has Its Maker meant not should be trod Erect and free, Unscourged by Superstition's rod, That's hallowed ground -- mourned, and missed, Is't death to fall for Freedom's right? What can alone ennoble fight ?— Give that! and welcome War to brace where, The colors planted face to face, The lips repose our love has kissed:-Though Death's pale horse lead on Is't Yon churchyard's bowers! No! in ourselves their souls exist, A part of ours. A kiss can consecrate the ground Is hallowed down to earth's profound, For time makes all but true love old; Run molten still in memory's mould; Until the heart itself be cold In Lethe's pool. What hallows ground where heroes sleep? 'Tis not the sculptured piles you In dews that heavens far distant weep Or genii twine beneath the deep the chase, Shall still be dear. And place our trophies where men kneel To Heaven!-but Heaven rebukes The cause of Truth and human weal, Transfer it from the sword's appeal Peace! Love! the cherubim that join Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine, Prayers sound in vain, and temples Where they are not; Religion's spot. To incantations dost thou trust, See mouldering stones and metal's rust Belie the vaunt, That men can bless one pile of dust The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man! But strew his ashes to the wind temples creeds themselves, grow wan! But there's a dome of nobler span, A temple given Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban- Earth's compass round; go Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood As if a storm passed by, Saying, "We are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 'Tis Mercy bids thee go; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow. "What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, The vassals of the will?— And your high priesthood shall make And triumphs that beneath thee earth sprang, Healed not a passion or a pang Entailed on human hearts. "Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Nor with thy rising beams recall Its piteous pageants bring not back, Of pain anew to writhe; Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe. "Even I am weary in yon skies |