I stood upon the heights above Charlestown, and was silently contrasting the then peaceful aspect of the scene with that which it presented on the day of wrath and blood which had rendered the place so memorable in story, as my fancy filled with images of the past and once more crowded the hill—not indeed with knights and paladins of old,

Sed rusticorum mascula militum
Proles, Sabellis docta ligonibus
Versare glebas, et severae
Matris ad arbitrium recisos
Portare fustes.—Hor. Lib. iii. Car. 6.

As the silent hosts arose in imagination before me, I thought of the complicated feelings which on that day must have stirred their hearts; I thought of the breasts which kindled under the insult of invasion and were nerved with the stern determination to play out the game upon which was staked their all of earthly hope or fear, and it struck me that the gallant Warren, whose voice had often made the patriot's heart to glow and nerved the warrior's arm, might perhaps have addressed them in sentiment something as follows:

THE BATTLE OF BREED'S HILL.

Look down upon the bay, my men,
As proudly comes the foe;
Ah! send them back their shout agen,
That patriot hearts may glow.
They come to us in pomp of war—
The tyrant in his gold;
Our arms are few—they're stronger far,
But who will say as bold?
No Briton ever forged the chains
Shall bind our hands at will;
The Pilgrim spirit still remains,
Out on the western hill.
Their power may awe the coward slave,
But not the stalwart free;
Their steel may drive us to the grave,
But not from liberty.
Our fathers spirit boils along
Impetuous through our veins;
We ask to know, where are the strong,
To bind us in their chains?
Then let the foe look to his steel,
And count his numbers strong;
We bide him here for wo or weal,
As he shall know ere long.
We'll dare him to the last of death—
We've sworn it in our hearts;
We stand upon our native heath—
We'll hold till life departs.
Oh! what is death to slavery!
The dead at least are free:
And what is life for victory!
We strike for liberty!
This sod shall warm beneath our feet,
All reeking in our gore,
And hearts that gladly cease to beat,
The foe must trample o'er.
Our boys are bold—their mothers stern,
Will rear them true and brave,
And many noble hearts shall burn
To free a father's grave.
Let every tongue be hushed and still,
Each soldier hold his breath—
They're marching up the sloping hill,—
And now prepare for death.

ALPHA.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO A LADY.

Oh! do not sing—my soul is wrung
When those sweet tones salute mine ear;
Thou canst not sing as thou hast sung—
As I have heard, I cannot hear.
Then do not breathe to me one strain
Of those I loved in years gone by;
Their melody can only throw
A darker cloud upon my sky.
Speak not to me!—thine accents fall
By far too sadly on my ear;
They told of love, and hope, and joy—
They tell of life made lone and drear.
No word speak thou! The tones are changed
That breathed to me thy young heart's vow
Of all-enduring fondness; aye!
Thou canst but speak in kindness now.
And worse than all would be the smile
Which once was mine, and only mine;
Thou wert my hope—thy love my pride—
Thy heart my spirit's chosen shrine.
But now—oh! smile not on me now;
'Tis insult—worse, 'tis mockery!
Estranged, and cold, and false, thou art;
Smile if thou wilt—but not on me.