Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 57, No. 351, January 1845. Various

thick one, by the way — in two. Both retreat a short distance, and lowering their heads like a couple of angry steers, run full tilt against each other, with force that would fracture any skulls except African ones. Once, twice, three times — at the third encounter, Plato the sage bites the dust before the hero of Macedon. Confound the fellows! My companions are laughing fit to split themselves, but I see nothing to laugh at. I shall have them in hospital for the next ten days. Tully, however, has picked up the pan and the embers, and is rushing towards a flag-staff near the shore, from which the Louisianian flag is waving. I see now what they are all at. They have brought down the Wasp and the Scorpion from on Menou's plantation, two four-pounders so named, which were taken last year on board a Porto Rico pirate, and which my father-in-law bought. Boum — boum — and at the sound the whole black population of the plantation comes flocking to the shore, capering and jumping like so many opera-dancers, only not quite so gracefully, and shouting out — "Massa come; hurra, massa come! Massa maum bring; hurra, massa!" and manifesting a joy that is probably rendered more lively by the hopes of an extra ration of rum and salt-fish. And now Monsieur Menou and his son hurry down to receive us; the steamer stops, the plank is thrown across, and amidst shaking of hands, and farewells, and good wishes, our party hurries on shore. Thank heaven! we are home, and settled at last.

      BORODINO. — AN ODE

Strophe

      Weep for the living! mourn no more

      Thy children slain on Moskwa's shore,

      Cut off from evil! want, and anguish,

      And care, for ever brooding and in vain;

      No more to be beguiled! no more to languish

      Under the yoke of labour and of pain!

      Their doom of future joy or woe

      For good or evil done below,

      The Judge of all the earth will order rightly!

      Flee winding error through the flowery way,

      To daily follow truth! to ponder nightly

      On time, and death, and judgment, nearer day by day!

      Bewail thy bane, deluded France,

      Vain-glory, overweening pride,

      And harrying earth with eagle glance,

      Ambition, frantic homicide!

      Lament, of all that armed throng

      How few may reach their native land!

      By war and tempest to be borne along,

      To strew, like leaves, the Scythian strand?

      Before Jehovah who can stand?

      His path in evil hour the dragon cross'd!

      He casteth forth his ice! at his command

      The deep is frozen! — all is lost!

      For who, great God, is able to abide thy frost?

Epode

      Elate of heart, and wild of eye,

      Crested horror hurtles by;

      Myriads, hurrying north and east,

      Gather round the funeral feast!

      From lands remote, beyond the Rhine,

      Running o'er with oil and wine,

      Wide-waving over hill and plain,

      Herbage green, and yellow grain;

      From Touraine's smooth irriguous strand,

      Garden of a fruitful land,

      To thy dominion, haughty Rhone,

      Leaping from thy craggy throne;

      From Alp and Apennine to where

      Gleam the Pyrenees in air;

      From pastoral vales and piny woods,

      Rocks and lakes and mountain-floods,

      The warriors come, in armed might

      Careering, careless of the right!

      Their leader he who sternly bade

      Freedom fall; and glory fade,

      The scourge of nations ripe for ruin,

      Planning oft their own undoing!

      But who in yonder swarming host

      Locust-like from coast to coast,

      Reluctant move, an alien few,

      Sullen, fierce, of sombre hue,

      Who, forced unhallow'd arms to bear,

      Mutter to the moaning air,

      Whose curses on the welkin cast

      Edge the keen and icy blast!

      Iberia, sorrow bade thee nurse

      Those who now the tyrant curse,

      Whose wrongs for vengeance cry aloud!

      Lo, the coming of a cloud!

      To burst in wrath, and sweep away

      Light as chaff the firm array!

      To rack with pain, or lull to rest

      Both oppressor and oppress'd.

Antistrophe

      Is it the wind from tower to tower

      Low-murmuring at midnight hour?

      Athwart the darkness light is stealing,

      Portentous, red with unrelenting ire,

      Inhuman deeds, and secrets dark revealing!

      Ye guilty, who may quench the kindled fire!

      Fall, city of the Czars, to rise

      Ennobled by self-sacrifice,

      Than tower and temple higher and more holy!

      The wilful king appointed o'er mankind

      To plague the lofty heart, and prove the lowly,

      Is fled! — Avenger, mount the chariot of the wind!

      Be thine, to guide the rapid scythe,

      To blind with snow the frozen sun,

      Against th' invader doomed to writhe,

      To rouse the Tartar, Russ, and Hun!

      Bid terror to the battle ride!

      Indignant honour, burning shame,

      Revenge, and hate, and patriotic pride!

      But not the quick unerring aim

      Of volley'd thunder winged with flame,

      Nor famine keener than the bird of prey,

      Nor death — avail the hard of heart to tame!

      Blow wind, and pierce the dire array,

      Flung, drifted by thy breath, athwart the frozen way!

Epode

      Before the blast as flakes of snow

      Drive