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

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

Our bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain;
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track:
"Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine cup, and fondly I swore,
From my home and my weeping friends never to part,
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary

and worn ;'And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay, But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away,

Rogers.

TOSCARL

LET us lift up the curtain, and observe What passes in that chamber. Now a sigh, And now a groan is heard. Then all is still. Twenty are sitting as in judgment there;

Men who have served their country and grown gray In governments and distant embassies,

Men eminent alike in war and peace;

Such as in effigy shall long adorn

The walls of Venice-to show what she has been.
Their garb is black, and black the arras is,
And sad the general aspect. Yet their looks
Are calm, are cheerful; nothing there like grief,
Nothing or harsh, or cruel. Still that noise,
That low and dismal moaning.

Half withdrawn,

A little to the left sits one in crimson,
A venerable man, fourscore and upward.

Cold drops of sweat stand on his furrowed brow. His hands are clenched; his eyes half shut and glazed ; His shrunk and withered limbs rigid as marble. 'Tis FOSCARI, the Doge. And there is one, A young man, lying at his feet, stretched out In torture. 'Tis his son, his only one; 'Tis GIACOMO, the blessing of his age,

(Say, has he lived for this?) accused of murder,
The murder of the Senator Donato.

Last night the proofs, if proofs they are, were dropt
Into the lion's mouth, the mouth of brass,
That gapes and gorges; and the Doge himself,
('Tis not the first time he has filled this office)
Must sit and look on a beloved son
Suffering the question.

Twice, to die in peace,

To save a falling house, and turn the hearts
Of his fell adversaries, those who now,

Like hell hounds in full cry, are running down
His last of four, twice did he ask their leave
To lay aside the Crown, and they refused him,
An oath exacting, never more to ask it;
And there he sits, a spectacle of wo,
By them, his rivals in the state, compelled,
Such the refinement of their cruelty,

To keep the place he sighed for.

Once again

The screw is turned, and as it turns, the Son

Looks up, and in a faint and broken accent,

Murmurs "My Father!" The old man shrinks back,

And in his mantle muffles up his face.

"Art thou not guilty?" says a voice, that once
Would greet the sufferer long before they met,
And on his ear strike like a pleasant music,
"Art thou not guilty?"—"No! indeed I am not."
But all is unavailing. In that court

Groans are confessions; Patience, Fortitude,
The work of magic; and released, upheld,
For condemnation, from his Father's lips
He hears the sentence,
Death if he leaves it.

"Banishment to CANDIA.

And the bark sets sail

And he is gone from all he loves—for ever!
His wife, his boys, and his disconsolate parents!
Gone in the dead of night-unseen of any-
Without a word, a look of tenderness,
To be called up, when, in his lonely hours
He would indulge in weeping.

Like a ghost,
Day after day, year after year, he haunts
An ancient rampart, that o'erhangs the sea:
Gazing on vacancy, and hourly starting
To answer to the watch-Alas, how changed
From him the mirror of the youth of Venice,
In whom the slightest thing, or whim, or chance,
Did he but wear his doublet so and so,

All followed at whose nuptials, when at length
He won that maid at once the fairest, noblest,
A daughter of the House of Contarini,
That house as old as VENICE, now among

il;