Part 9 (2/2)

O'erpowered by numbers, gloriously ye fell: Death only could such matchless courage quell; Whilst dying thus ye triumphed o'er your foes-- Its fame the world, its glory heaven, bestows!

SONNET ON THE FORT.

From 'midst these walls, whose ruins spread around, And scattered clods that heap the ensanguined ground, Three thousand souls of warriors, dead in fight, To better regions took their happy flight.

Long with unconquered souls they bravely stood, And fearless shed their unavailing blood: Till, to superior force compelled to yield, Their lives they quitted in the well-fought field.

This fatal soil has ever been the tomb Of slaughtered heroes, buried in its womb: Yet braver bodies did it ne'er sustain, Nor send more glorious soul the skies to gain.

I.

Tossed in a sea of doubts and fears, Love's hapless mariner, I sail, Where no inviting port appears, To screen me from the stormy gale.

II.

At distance viewed, a cheering star Conducts me through the swelling tide; A brighter luminary, far, Than Palinurus o'er descried.

III.

My soul, attracted by its blaze, Still follows where it points the way, And while attentively I gaze, Considers not how far I stray.

IV.

But female pride, reserved and shy, Like clouds that deepen on the day, Oft shroud it from my longing eye, When most I need the genial ray.

V.

O lovely star, so pure and bright!

Whose splendor feeds my vital fire, The moment thou deny'st thy light, Thy lost adorer will expire!

SONG.

Unconquered hope, thou bane of fear, And last deserter of the brave, Thou soothing ease of mortal care, Thou traveller beyond the grave; Thou soul of patience, airy food, Bold warrant of a distant good, Reviving cordial, kind decoy; Though fortune frowns and friends depart, Though Silvia flies me, flattering joy, Nor thou, nor love, shall leave my doting heart.

No slave, to lazy ease resigned, E'er triumphed over n.o.ble foes; The monarch fortune most is kind To him who bravely dares oppose.

They say, Love rates his blessing high, But who would prize an easy joy?

My scornful fair then I'll pursue, Though the coy beauty still denies; I grovel now on earth, 'tis true, But, raised by her, the humble slave may rise.

Might overcomes.

Him to whom G.o.d giveth may St. Peter bless.

Diligence is the mother of success, and in many important causes experience hath shown that the a.s.siduity of the solicitor hath brought a very doubtful suit to a very fortunate issue; but the truth of this maxim is nowhere more evinced than in war, where activity and despatch antic.i.p.ate the designs of the enemy, and obtain the victory before he has time to put himself in a posture of defence.

The common adage that delays are dangerous acts as spurs upon the resolution.

There are more tricks in the town than are dreamt of.

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