Pierced through the destined victim, where his arm,
Join'd the broad breast: a wound that skilful care
Haply had heal'd; but, him disabled now

For farther service, the unpitying throng
Of his tumultuous comrades from the wall
Thrust headlong. Nor did Conrade cease to hurl
His deadly javelins fast, for well within

The tower was stored with weapons, to the chief
Quickly supplied: nor did the mission'd Maid
Rest idle from the combat; she, secure,

Aim'd the keen quarrel, taught the cross-bow's use
By the willing mind that what it well desires
Gains aptly nor amid the numerous throng,
Though haply erring from their destined mark,
Sped her sharp arrows frustrate. From the tower
Ceaseless the bow-strings twang: the knights below,
Each by his pavais bulwark'd, thither aim'd
Their darts, and not a dart fell woundless there,
So thickly throng'd they stood, and fell as fast
As when the monarch of the East goes forth
From Gemna's banks and the proud palaces
Of Delhi, the wild monsters of the wood
Die in the blameless warfare: closed within
The still-contracting circle, their brute force
Wasting in mutual rage, they perish there,
Or by each other's fury lacerate,
The archer's barbed arrow, or the lance
Of some bold youth of his first exploits vain,
Rajah or Omrah, for the war of beasts
Venturous, and learning thus the love of blood.
The shout of terror rings along the wall,
For now the French their scaling ladders place,
And bearing high their bucklers, to the assault
Mount fearless from above the furious troops
Hurl down such weapons as inventive care
Or frantic rage supplies: huge stones and beams
Crush the bold foe; some, thrust adown the height,
Fall living to their death; some in keen pangs
And wildly-writhing, as the liquid lead
Gnaws through their members, leap down desperate,
Eager to cease from suffering. Still they mount,
And by their fellows' fate unterrified,
Still dare the perilous way. Nor dangerless

To the English was the fight, though from above
Easy to crush the assailants: them amidst
Fast fled the arrows; the large brass-wing'd darts,
There driven resistless from the espringal,
Keeping their impulse even in the wound,
Whirl as they pierce the victim. Some fall crush'd
Beneath the ponderous fragment that descends
The heavier from its height; some, the long lance,
Impetuous rushing on its viewless way,

Transfix'd. The death-fraught cannon's thundering roar
Convulsing air, the soldier's eager shout,
And terror's wild shriek, echo o'er the plain

In dreadful harmony.

THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS:

AND HOW HE GAINED THEM.

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "The few locks that are left you are gray; You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man, Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied, "I remember'd that youth would fly fast,

And abused not my health and my vigour at first,
That I never might need them at last."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "And pleasures with youth pass away;

And yet you lament not the days that are gone,
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied, "I remember'd that youth could not last;

I thought of the future, whatever I did,

That I never might grieve for the past."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "And life must be hastening away;

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death!
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied; "Let the cause thy attention engage;

In the days of my youth I remembered my God!
And He hath not forgotten my age."

Robert Cannabill.

{

Born 1774.

Died 1810.

THIS Scottish poet, chiefly known for his exquisite songs in the Scottish dialect, was born at Paisley, on 3d June 1774. He received a very limited education, and was early put to the occupation of weaving, where he began his song writing. He is also the author of some poems, but they are far inferior to his songs. A volume of his poems and songs was published in 1807, and was highly successful. Meeting some disappointment in issuing another volume, his mind, which had been previously weakened by consumption, gave way, and in a fit of depression he drowned himself, on 17th May 1810.

THE BRAES O' GLENIFFER.

KEEN blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Gleniffer,'
The auld castle's turrets are covered wi' snaw;
How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover,
Amang the broom bushes by Stanley green shaw:
The wild flow'rs o' summer were spread a' sae bonnie,
The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree;
But far to the camp they ha'e marched my dear Johnnie,
And now it is winter wi' nature and me.

Then ilk thing around us was blithesome and cheery,
Then ilk thing around us was bonnie and braw;
Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary,

And naething is seen but the wide spreading snaw.
The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie,
They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee,
And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie,
'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me.

Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain,
And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae,
While down the bleak glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain
That murmured sae sweet to my laddie and me.
"Tis no its loud roar on the wintry wind swellin',
"Tis no the cauld blast brings the tears i' my e'e,
For, O gin I saw but my bonny Scots callan',
The dark days o' winter were summer to me!

John Leyden.

Born 1775.

Died 1811.

A DISTINGUISHED oriental scholar, was born at Denholm, in Roxburghshire, in 1775. He was of humble parentage, but by his prodigious power of mind and intense application he raised himself to a position of high eminence. He was ordained to the church; but his tastes inclining to oriental literature, he qualified himself in five months for the post of surgeon, and in that capacity he was put on the Madras establishment, where he prosecuted his oriental studies. He was afterwards appointed a judge at Calcutta. He died August 28th, 1811. His chief poems are his "Scenes of Infancy," and some ballads.

ODE TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN.

SLAVE of the dark and dirty mine!

What vanity has brought thee here?
How can I love to see thee shine

So bright, whom I have bought so dear?
The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear
For twilight converse, arm in arm ;

The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear
When mirth and music wont to cheer.
By Cherical's dark wandering streams,

Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams
Of Teviot loved while still a child,
Of castled rocks stupendous piled

By Esk or Eden's classic wave,

Where loves of youth and friendships smiled,

Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade!
The perished bliss of youth's first prime,
That once so bright on fancy played,

Revives no more in after-time.

Far from my sacred natal clime,

I haste to an untimely grave;

The daring thoughts that soared sublime

Are sunk in ocean's southern wave.

Slave of the mine! thy yellow light

Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear.

A gentle vision comes by night

My lonely widowed heart to cheer:

Her eyes are dim with many a tear,
That once were guiding stars to mine;

Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!
I cannot bear to see thee shine.

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,
I left a heart that loved me true!
I crossed the tedious ocean-wave,

To roam in climes unkind and new.
The cold wind of the stranger blew
Chill on my withered heart; the grave

Dark and untimely met my view—
And all for thee, vile yellow slave!
Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock

A wanderer's banished heart forlorn,
Now that his frame the lightning shock

Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne ?
From love, from friendship, country, torn,

To memory's fond regrets the prey;
Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn!
Go mix thee with thy kindred clay!

Walter Savage Landor.

Born 1775.

BORN at Ipseley Court, Warwickshire, on 30th January 1775, of an ancient family, he was educated for the army, but his republican views caused him to decline supporting the monarchy in this way. He succeeded to the family estate about 1805, and in 1806 raised a troop at his own expense to support the Spaniards in their first insurrection. In 1815 he took up his abode in Italy, where he resided for many years. poems were published in 1795, and the last in 1858. His prose writings especially his "Imaginary Conversations," are by far the finest of his compositions, although steeped in the bitter tone of the old mocking Paganism.

THE MAID'S LAMENT.

I LOVED him not; and yet, now he is gone,

I feel I am alone.

Landor's first

I checked him while he spoke; yet could he speak,
Alas! I would not check.

For reasons not to love him once I sought,

And wearied all my thought