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And, flashing to the orient light,
His banner'd legions glitter'd bright,
The victor of the world confess'd
A dark awe shivering at his breast.
Shall the sons of distant days
Unpunish'd on my relics gaze?
Hark! Hesus rushes from on high,
Vindictive thunder rocks the sky,
See Taranis descends to save
His hero's violated grave:

And shakes, beneath the lightning's glare,
The sulphur from his blazing hair.

Hence! ye thought my grave to spoil,
Dark oblivion marks your toil;
Deep the clouds of ages roll,

History drops her mouldering scroll,

And never shall reveal the name,

Of him who scorns her transient fame."


'Tis silence all-above, beneath,

Along the hill's bleak brow,

Along the marsh's yellow heath,
Along the dell below,


Silent as death, and yet thy flood,
Pale Serenac! still swells with blood.

Yet from that hill, the sweeping shell
Thunder'd through blazing smoke,
A moment past,-from that calm dell
The spiry rocket broke ;
And o'er that marsh, so hushed and lone,

Rung shout and charge, and dying groan.


And still the work of war is there;
In many a streamer rent,

The strip'd flag wavering to the air,

The shatter'd battlement.

And darker still, the heaps that heave
The soil above their half-made grave.

These are the bones of warrior-men,
That fear'd no human foe,
The world might vainly match again

The hearts that here lie low.

But our's the grief, and guilt, and stain,
That blood like their's was shed in vain!

They came in triumph o'er the tide
From lands their valour won,
From the dark Tyrant's humbled pride,
From the world's chain undone.

Nor e'er from toil or triumph came

Such hands of might, such souls of flame.

"God and the Right," their charging word,

Stronger than helm or mail,

The prayer of Europe on their sword,

Its shout upon the gale.

Like Heaven's own lightnings rushing on They smote the Oppressor on his throne.

Their rest was short. They rose again,

To crush the vilest foe

That ever shrunk on land or main

Before a Briton's blow:

That all their father-spirit gone,

Bowed basest to that bloody throne!

Slaves in their souls! their native scorn

To freedom, honour given;
But still with blacker envy torn

Where England wars for Heaven.
Refuse of Earth! yet these have seen,
Oh shame! the backs of British men!

There's not a form of all that lie
Thus ghastly, wild, and bare,
Tost bleeding to the stormy sky,
Black in the burning air.

But to his knee some infant clung,
But on his heart some fond heart hung.

Dreamers! away! your clasp no more
Shall give the welcome home!
The falcon's beak has drank his gore,
The vulture's throat's his tomb.
The wolf is trooping wild below!
The thing ye lov'd is hideous now!

And shall they perish all! and blood
Like their's be idly shed? •

Nor call to Heav'n from field and flood
For justice on the head,

Thoughtless of triumph or of stain,

If basely screen'd from scourge and chain.

They died, they gave their lives as free

As foam upon the wave,

Alike to them, on shore or sea,

The passage to the grave.
But weak alike in coward hand

The distaff and the warrior's brand.

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St. Helena Races.-The Knowing Ones taken-in. -These races, which took place in September last, presented the sporting amateurs with a novelty, such as perhaps is not to be found, recorded n the annals of horse-racing. An officer of the Lady Carrington undertook to trot one of those immense dray-horses which are made use of in London, and which had been brought out in that ship for the purpose of drawing the stores up from the beach, against an ambling nag of the island, whose favourite pace was a canter. The match was made for 20 guineas, and the distance to be trotted was one mile. Considerable curiosity was excited. At the appointed time, the gen tleman who rode the daisy cutter, was upon the ground, waiting for his opponent, the knight of the Dray-horse, who soon made his appearance over the top of the last hill, which he had to surmount on his way from town to Deadwood; for he rode all the way up, nothing fearful of fatiguing his colossal beast, of whom it was truly observed, "the trembling earth resounds his tread." He was accoutred, if not in Dandy, yet something in Dandy Dinmont-like style, with a large white frock coat, a white hat, the slouching brim of which had "ample room and verge enough" to shield its wearer from both sun and rain; large top boots, and his dexter hand flourishing a long whip. As they rose over the brow of the mountain, the horse and the rider had more the appearance of one of those gigantic shapes which the mists often assume in a mountainous region,

than animals of blood and bone. They started, and bets ran high against poor dobbin, but his opponent, perhaps, scorning such a competition, or finding a trot uneasy to his rigidity of limb, soon broke off into his accustomed two-up and two-down, and was consequently obliged to return, and start anew. He did so, but with no better success, yet still bets were in his favour; a third time he started, but still beginning never ending," was a third time obliged to return. The tide now turned in dobbin's favour, who all this while kept on "the even tenour of his trot,"

"And backward and forward he switched his long tail, "As a gentleman switches his cane."

And finally, his plodding industry and perseverance, as is often the case in the more important competitions of men, as well as horses, carried off the prize from his fleet but unsteady rival; and he came in winner of the race, amidst the loud laughter and acclamations of almost the whole population of the island.-Evening Paper.

On Hydrophobia.-To the Editor of the Times.-Sir, Having read in the Medical and Physical Journal some of Dr. Pincard's very admirable remarks on Hydrophobia, I am induced to address this letter to you, fearful that what he has so well observed will not sufficiently soon circulate for public good. The very fatal cases that have of late been given us is surely enough to

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