572 ANNUAL REGISTER, 1814. 



And now that heart's rich tide is chill. 

 That horn is silent on the hill. 



The gallant chace is done; 

 Scatter'd and sunk, the mountain band 

 Threw the loved rifle from their hand. 



The soul of fight is gone ! 



But God is all. — Vain warrior-skill, 

 Vain the high soul, the mighty will. 



Before the word of Heav'n : — 

 The helm that on the chieftain's brow, 

 Flash'd fire against the morning's glow, 



His blood may dim at ev'n. 



Yet, Hofer ! in that hour of ill 

 Thine was a brighter laurel still 



Than the red field e'er gave ; 

 The crown immortal liberty 

 Gives to the few that dare to die 



And seek her in the grave. 



Who saw, as levelled the Chasseur 

 His deadly aim, the shade of fear 



Pass o'er the Hero's brow ? 

 Who saw his dark eyes' martial gaze 

 Turn from the muskets' volley'd blaze 



That laid him calm and low ? 



ON RAUCH'S BUST OF QUEEN LOUISA OF PRUSSIA. 



FROM THE SAME. 



How lovely still, though now no more 

 Thy locks in auburn beauty pour ; 

 No more thine eye, of humid blue. 

 Beams like the star thro' evening dew : 

 Forbid alike to beam and weep. 

 Those orbs are closed in marble sleep, 

 Those braids in moveless marble twine ; 

 Princess ! thy throne is now thy shrine. 

 Yet, matchless as in life, the spell 

 Loves on that pallid lip to dwell ; 

 And still the soul's immortal glow 

 Is radiant on that dazzling brow. 

 Soft be thy slumbers, soft and deep. 

 Till start thy people from their sleep ; 

 Till thousand beacons, blazing bright. 

 Shake their wild splendors on the night ; 



