billows and the driving brine,
The glut is backward hurled. Hurrah! 'tis vain!
    The vengeful fools, like men who war in wine,
Intoxicate with madness, overfain
For blood, have fired o'erhead, and not a man is slain.

Meantime, the valiant hero of the fight
    Upon his flank had foiled another foe,
Who now, retreating back in broken plight,
    Dismayed the rest with vision of their woe.—
    To see and seize, the leader is not slow;
He rushes to his buglers, bids them fast
    Withdraw into the woods, advance and blow—
"As for your lives this effort were the last!—
Yea, blow as Britain's throne depended on your blast!"

Away they ran, and, wheeling, sharply blew
    The wide-mouthed din obedient to his word:
Afar to north and south the echoes flew;
    The Indian child was startled, and the bird
    Affrighted from its peaceful nest; it stirred
The sluggish waters of the swart Outarde.
    Aghast, the Southron a great army heard,
And fled before the visionary sword,
As fled the Syrian host, deceived by Israel's Lord.

Back! cravens, back! in ignominy fly!
    Back to your homes, your country, and your slaves!
But thou art holy ground, and ne'er shall die
    Thy virtue and thy fame while still Time saves
    His best. And still shall states when conquest craves
From thee the salutary lesson learn,
    The poet call thy heroes from their graves,
To thee the warrior point, the patriot turn,
Thou last of Freedom's fields—Canadian Bannockburn!

EVENING IN JUNE.

The purple lilac with the dark green leaves
    A subtle perfume spreads o'er fields wherein
The meadow-lark with clear full singing cleaves
    The choral air. The rossignols begin
    A blither song, where the treacherous spiders spin
Their shimmering webs. The robin o'er her young
    Chirps cheerfully, or starts the frighted din.
Till the night oriole lights his lamp among
The blooms of marigold and spotted adder's tongue.

DEATH OF SIR JOHN.

What news to all alike brings startling sorrow?
    And he is dead, the vigorous chieftain dead?
Nor e'en for him would death still brook to-morrow?
    No more shall followers vaunt and foemen dread;
    No more by him the hot debate be led;
No more the lively tale, the clever jest
    Of him the State's most skilful, ablest head,
Albeit not her sternest, not her best,
But such is over now, then let his ashes rest.

When all was anarchy, he seized the reins,
    And broke and trained the fiery coursers young,
And from so many wide and fair domains
    One great Dominion 'neath his guidance sprung,
    Which he made glorious, till the nations rung
With our renown and his immortal name.
    But now his day was o'er; his work was done.
'Twas well.—He lived to hear his land's acclaim,
And perished in the pride of his Marengo fame.

Once more I see him—there once more he stands,
    Where midst the learned and beautiful he stood:
Scholars and knights, dames, statesmen clapped their hands;
    Within the glittering hall a thousand viewed;
    And ardent youth drank draughts to him imbrewed
With adulation. Run is glory's race.
    And this is Death,—that such a being should,
Who o'er his country soared in "pride of place,"
Be mingled with her dust like brutes and idlers base.

Softly, sweet River, softly by the cliff,
    Where in his eyrie the spent eagle sleeps!
Softly, beside