While pleasure's phantom ye pursue,
And say, if sprightly dance or air,
Suit with the name of Waterloo?
Awful was the victory,
Chastened should the triumph be;
Midst the laurels she has won,
Britain mourns for many a son.

Veiled in clouds the morning rose,
Nature seemed to mourn the day,
Which consigned before its close
Thousands to their kindred clay;
How unfit for courtly ball,
Or the giddy festival,
Was the grim and ghastly view,
E're evening closed on Waterloo.

See the Highland Warrior rushing
Firm in danger on the foe,
Till the life blood warmly gushing
Lays the plaided hero low.
His native, pipe's accustomed sound,
Mid war's infernal concert drowned,
Cannot soothe his last adieu,
Or wake his sleep on Waterloo.

Charging on, the Cuirassier,
See the foaming charger flying
Trampling in his wild career,
On all alike the dead and dying,
See the bullet through his side,
Answered by the spouting tide,
Helmet, horse and rider too,
Roll on bloody Waterloo.

Shall scenes like these, the dance inspire;
Or wake th' enlivening notes of mirth,
Oh shivered be the recreant lyre,
That gave the base idea birth;
Other sounds I ween were there,
Other music rent the air,
Other waltz the warriors knew,
When they closed on Waterloo.

THE BOY OF EGREMONT.

The founders of Embsay were now dead, and left a daughter, who adopted
the mother's name of Romille, and was married to William FitzDuncan.
They had issue a son, commonly called the Boy of Egremont, who
surviving an elder brother, became the last hope of the family.

In the deep solitude of the woods, betwixt Bolton and Barden the river
suddenly contracts itself into a rocky channel, little more than four
feet wide, and pours through the tremendous fissure, with a rapidity
equal to its confinement. This place was then, as it now is, called
the Strid, from a feat often exercised by persons of more agility than
prudence, who stride from brink to brink, regardless of the destruction
which awaits a faltering step. Such, according to tradition, was the
fate of young Romille, who, inconsiderately, bounding over the chasm
with a greyhound in his leash, the animal hung back, and drew his
unfortunate master into the torrent. The Forester, who accompanied
Romille and beheld his fate, retu