And the following, in allusion to the instrument with which Lord C. severed the carotid artery, and which was the means of producing such a change in the destiny of the present prime minister, who was then on the eve of going out to India as governor-general,—
"Have you pensioned the Jew boy that sold me the knife?"
It is to be lamented that such a man should be an exile from his native country.—But I draw a veil over the rest, and sincerely hope that his absence from England will not be perpetual.
* * *
THE DEAD TRUMPETER.
TO ILLUSTRATE A CELEBRATED FRENCH PICTURE.
(For the Mirror.)
'Tis evening! the red rayless sun
Glares fiercely on the battle plain;—
Morn saw the deadly fray begun,
Morn heard thy bugle wake a strain,
Poor soldier! and its warning breath
Call'd thee, and myriads to death!
Thou wert thy mother's darling, thou,
Light to thy father's failing eyes;
Thou wert thy sisters' dearest! now
What art thou? something to despise
Yet tremble at; to hide, and be
Forgot, but by their misery!
Thou wert the beautiful! the brave!
Thou wert all joy, and love, and light;
But oh! thy grace was for the grave,
Thy dawning day, for mornless night!
And thou, so loving, so carest
Hast sunk—unpitied—unblest!
Yes, warrior! and the life-stream flows
Yet from thee, in thy foe-man's land,
Welling before the gate of those
Who should stretch forth a kindly hand
To save th' unhonour'd, friendless dead
From rushing legion's scouring tread.
Friendless poor soldier?—nay thy steed
Stands gazing on thee, with an eye
Too piteous: he felt thee bleed,—
He saw thee, dropping from him,—die!
And in thine helpless, lorn estate,
He cannot leave thee, desolate.
Nor thy poor dog, whose anxious gaze,
On helm and bugle's lowly place,
Speaks his deep sorrow and amaze!
He, watching yet, thine icy face
Licks thy pale forehead with a moan
To tell thee—Thou art not alone!
M. L. B.