aws
His weapon in the royal cause.

Stretched bleeding on the battle-field
His first, last strife is done;
No more his hand the sword shall wield,
His eyes behold the sun,
Or his pale lips repeat the cry,
The thrilling shout of victory!--

He struggles yet--the strife is o'er--
The soul hath winged its flight,
Again beholds its native shore,
A spirit robed in light.
What now avail his mother's cares--
Her silent tears--her nightly prayers?

On that young soldier's prostrate form
The warrior grimly smiled,
As if he viewed in secret scorn
That face so fair and mild;
Why springs he to the fatal plain
To gaze upon that form again?

Why does his eye in frenzy roll?
Why is his clenched hand raised?
What thought quick rushed across his soul,
When on that boy he gazed?
His quivering lip and swollen brow
His mental agonies avow.

Can sorrow touch that iron heart,
So long to mercy steeled?
From those fierce eyes the big drops start,
He sinks upon the field.
Night closes round, the strife is done,
That warrior sleeps beside his son!

THE EARTHQUAKE.

There was no sound in earth or air,
And soft the moonbeams smiled
On stately tower and temple fair,
Like mother o'er her child;
And all was hushed in the deep repose
That welcomes the summer evening's close.

Many an eye that day had wept,
And many a cheek with joy grew bright,
Which now, alike unconscious, slept
Beneath the wan moonlight;
And mandolin and gay guitar
Had ceased to woo the evening star.

The lover has sought his couch again,
And the maiden's eyes no longer glisten,
As she comes to the lattice to catch his strain,
And sighs while she bends to smile and listen.
She sleeps, but her rosy lips still move,
And in dreams she answers the voice of love.

Sleep on, ye thoughtless and giddy train,
Sorrow comes with the dawning ray;
Ye never shall wake to joy again,
Or your gay laugh gladden the rising day:
Death sits brooding above your towers,
And destruction rides on the coming hours.--

The day has dawned--but not a breath
Sighs through the sultry air;
The heavens above and earth beneath
One gloomy aspect wear--
Horror and doubt and wild dismay
Welcome the dawn of that fatal day.

Hark!--'tis not the thunder's lengthened peal!
Hark!--'tis not the winds that rise;
Or the heavy crush of the laden wheel,
That echoes through the skies--
'Tis the sound that gives the earthquake birth!
'Ti