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"Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid 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
Ah! 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 TORTOISE-SHELL TOM-CAT.

OH, what a story the papers have been telling us,
About a little animal of mighty price,

And who ever thought but an Auctioneer of selling us, For near three hundred yellow boys, a trap for mice; Of its beauties and its qualities, no doubt he told them fine tales,

But for me, I should have soon have bought a cat of nine tails;

I wouldn't give for all the cats in Christendom so vast a fee,

No to save 'em from the catacombs or Catalini's catastrophe:

Kate of Russia, Katterfelto's cat, and Catalani,

Are every one

By Tom outdone,
As you shall hear.

[Spoken.]-We'll suppose Mr. Cat's-eye, the Auctioneer, with his catalogue in one hand, and a hammer like a Catapulta in the other, mounted in the rostrum at the great room in Cateaton-street.

'Hem! Leds and Gemmen-Cats are of two distinctions: Thomas and Tabby-This is of the former

breed, and the only instance in which I have seen beauty monopolized by a male! Look at him, ladies! what a magnificent mouser! meek though masculine! The curious concatenation of colour in that Cat, calls Categorically for your best bidding. Place a proper price upon poor Pussey! consult your feline bosoms, and bid me knock him down.

Ladies and Gentlemen, a-going, going, going—

Any sum for Tommy Tortoise-shell you can't think dear.'

Next I shall tell ye, the company around him,

They emulously bade as if they were all wild; Tom thought them mad, while they King of Kittens crown'd him,

And kiss'd, caress'd, and dandled him just like a child:

Lady Betty Longwaist, and Mrs. Martha Griskin, Prim Polly Pussey-love, Miss Scratch, and Biddy Twiskin,

Solemn Sally Solus, who to no man yes had ever said, Killing Kitty Crookedlegs, and neat Miss Nelly Neverwed,

Crowding, squeezing, nodding, bidding, each for Puss

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[Spoken in different voices.]-Irish Lady-Och, the dear crater, how beautiful he looks when he shuts his eyes! beautiful indeed! He'd even lure the mice to look at him.

Auctioneer.-Forty-five guineas in twenty places-By different Ladies.-Sixty-five!-Seventy !Eighty-Ninety!

Auctioneer.-Go on, Ladies; nobody bid more? It's enough to make a Cat swear to think he should go for so little. If the Countess of Catamarran was here, she'd outbid ye all. Miss Grimalkin, you are a

connoiseur in Cats, what shall I say?--Ninety-five guineas, sir. (In an old tremulous tone.)

Auctioneer. Thank you, Miss-Mem, it does not signify, you may bid as you will, but he shall be mine, if I bid all day. One hundred and twenty, sir.

Auctioneer.--Thank ye, Lady Letty.-Take a long, last lingering look, Ladies. What a wonder! The only Tortoise-shell Tom the world ever witnessed! See how he twists his tail, and washes his whiskers! Tom, Tom, Tom! (Cat mews.) How musically and divinely he mews, Ladies ?-One hundred and seventy guineas, sir.

Auctioneer.-Thank you, Miss Tabby, you'll not be made a cat's paw of, depend on it--(Ladies laugh.) Glad to hear you laugh, Ladies: I see how the Cat jumps now; Tommy's going.

Ladies and Gentleman, a-going, going, going,

Any sum for Tommy Tortoise-shell you can't think dear.

Now louder and warmer the competition growing,
Politeness nearly banish'd in the grand fracas.
Two hundred-two hundred and thirty-three a-going---
Gone!-Never cat of Talons met with such eclat:
Nay nine or ten fine gentlemen were in the fashion
caught as well

As ladies in the bidding for this purring piece of Tortoise-shell.

The buyer bore him off in triumph, after all the fun was done,

And bells rung as if Whittington had been Lord Mayor

of London.

Mice and rats flung up their hats, for joy that cats so

scarce were,

And mouse-trap makers rais'd the price full cent per cent, I swear, sir,

None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so.
As the ground was before thus let it be.--
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow,
And is this all the world hath gain'd by thee,
Thou first and last of fields, king-making Victory!
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose, with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ;—

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !

Did you not hear it ?-No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;

On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd;

No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet,
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-
But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is!-it is! the cannon's op'ning roar !
Within a window'd niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,

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And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear

And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, And rous'd the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell! Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness;

And there was sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron. and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar;
And near,
the beat of the alarming drum
Rous'd up the soldier ere the morning star;
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! they come,
they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose!
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard, and heard too have her Saxon foes:
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! but with the breath which fills
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With their fierce native daring, which instills
The stirring memory of a thousand years:

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's

ears.

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops as they pass,
Grieving-if aught inanimate e'er grieves-
Over the unreturning brave-alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure: when this fiery mass

Of living valour, rolling on the foe

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and

low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay:

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