And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby, died;

But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

“They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun:

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won,

And our good Prince Eugene."

"Why, 't was a very wicked thing!

Said little Wilhelmine.

"Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he;

"And everybody praised the Duke, Who this great fight did win."

"But what good came of it at last?"

Quoth little Peterkin.

'Why, that I cannot tell," said he;

"But 't was a famous victory."

Robert Southey.

BUT

BLENHEIM.

JT now the trumpet, terrible from far, In shriller clangors animates the war, Confederate drums in fuller concert beat, And echoing hills the loud alarm repeat: Gallia's proud standards, to Bavaria's joined, Unfurl their gilded lilies in the wind; The daring prince his blasted hopes renews, And while the thick embattled host he views Stretched out in deep array, and dreadful length, His heart dilates, and glories in his strength. The fatal day its mighty course began,

That the grieved world had long desired in vain :
States that their new captivity bemoaned,

Armies of martyrs that in exile groaned,
Sighs from the depth of gloomy dungeons heard,
And prayers in bitterness of soul preferred,
Europe's loud cries, that Providence assailed,
And Anna's ardent vows, at length prevailed;
The day was come when Heaven designed to show
His care and conduct of the world below..

Behold, in awful march and dread array,
The long extended squadrons shape their way!
Death, in approaching terrible, imparts
An anxious horror to the bravest hearts;
Yet do their beating breasts demand the strife,
And thirst of glory quells the love of life.
No vulgar fears can British minds control:
Heat of revenge, and noble pride of soul,

O'erlook the foe, advantaged by his post,

Lessen his numbers, and contract his host:'
Though fens and floods possessed the middle space,
That unprovoked they would have feared to pass;
Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia's bauds,
When her proud foe ranged on their borders stands.
But, O my Muse, what numbers wilt thou find
To sing the furious troops in battle joined!
Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound,
The victor's shouts, and dying groans confound,
The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies,
And all the thunder of the battle rise.

'T was then great Marlbro's mighty soul was proved,
That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved,
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair,
Examined all the dreadful scenes of war;

In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed,
To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid,
Inspired repulsed battalions to engage,
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage.
So when an angel by divine command
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land,
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past,
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast;
And pleased the Almighty's orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.

Joseph Addison.

THEA

Bonn.

A TRUANT HOUR.

HE golden stars keep watch aloft;
Unmarked the moments glide along,

Save that around me scatters oft
Yon nightingale his pearls of song:

The hum of men, the roar of wheels,
That filled the streets erewhile, are gone;
The inner consciousness but feels

The lovely river rolling on.

The course of thoughts and being, pent
As waters ere they plunge below,
Reflects a downward firmament

Of life and things, in gleamy show.

Thus rest, so hushed with airs of balm

That reach them from their promise land,
The righteous souls, in stillest calm
Laid up in their Redeemer's hand.

All that has been, and all that is,
Back from their thoughts in light is given,
Deep firmaments of inward bliss
Far glittering into distant heaven.

The while, side-heard as in a dream,
The ages strike their solemn chime;
And from the ancient hills the stream
Rolls onward of predestined Time.

Henry Alford.

Bremen.

IN PORT.

THE Rathhaus, in the Market-place, has the side facing the Dom of beautiful Gothic. . . . . In a particular compartment of the cellars beneath it, shown only by permission of the burgomaster, are casks called the Rose, and the Twelve Apostles, filled with fine hock, some of it a century and a half old.-MURRAY'S Hand-Book, Northern Germany.

APPY the man who is safe in his haven,

HAP

And has left far behind the sea and its sorrows,

And now so warm and calmly sits

In the cosey Town-Cellar of Bremen.

O, how the world so homelike and sweetly
In the wine-cup again is mirrored,
And how the wavering microcosmos
Sunnily flows through the thirstiest heart!
All things I see in the glass,

Ancient and modern histories by myriads,
Grecian and Ottoman, Hegel and Gans,
Forests of citron, and watches patrolling,

Berlin, and Schilda, and Tunis, and Hamburg,