The Sun.
London, England, 1849-08-22 00:00:00

HUNGARY.

Shout, Hungary, shout—let your fierce triumph cry
O'er the tumult of battle be lifted on high!
Let the roar of that glorious thunder roll far,
Till it palsies with panic the soul of the Czar;
Into Poland's brave heart drives the life-blood again,
And makes Italy writhe in her hal- broken chain.

Lo the great words of Kossuth are town in all hearts,
And the harvest—a people of warriors upstarts;
" Smite and spare not, strike home till their_dastardly
standard
Grovels prone at the feet of the heroes they've slander'd.
No mercy! no pause! while a foeman yet stands
On the soil of your fathers with arms in his hand."
On, on! ye wild riders who rush without reins,
A whirlwhind of war o'er the shelterless plains;
Let your swift clearing sabres flash death thro' the shroud
Of dust rolling round, like the bolt from the cloud,
Up, up, ye wild herelsnaen, and break through and
through
Their wavering ranks with your deadly lassoo;
While breast-plate and helmet crash fragile as flax.
Beneath the rude might of the keen whirling axe.*
Glory, glory for ever be heaped on the nation
That has poured out its heart in one mighty libation—
Nobler blood never crimsoned Thermopyla3's sod—
At the altar of Fatherland, Freedom, and God.
Glory, glory for ever shall brighten each name
Of the heroes who fanned that high passion to flame,
Dembinski and Kossuth, and Georgey and Bem;
Fame's echoes shall never wax weary of them.
May the vengeance of God nerve your sinews with might,
Not for Hungary only—for Europe ye fight—
Yes! this is the war whose far thunders have rolled
So long o'er the nations—the strife oft foretold.
Between those who would loosen and those who would

bind
In the bonds of mere force the expansions of mind:
Between those who would prop Power's dotard decay
By imbruting the souls that succumb to his sway;
And those who would lift to its uttermost span
Of unbounded achievement the spirit of man.

Can it be that the Mother of Freemen stills sleeps
In tame dreams o'er the wealth she ingloriously heaps,
Is her high spirit quenched—has her proud heart groan
cold?
Has her clear eye of valour grown jaundiced with gold!
Shall she, who once smote with the fire of that glance
In the strength of his soaring the Eggle of France,
Shrink cowering back, at his huge bulk aghast,
From the Condor who screams on the black Arctic blast,
Though his mate be the grim two-necked vulture that

O'er Ausonia the gloom of her death dropping wings?
No, perish the thought—be the craven abhorred,
Who would counsel our England to crouch o'cr her

hoard.
Change her swords into ledgers, and tame down the soul
That Glory, not Mammon, was wont to controul.
No ; let France, if she will, after trampling at hone
Upon Liberty's corpse, go end trample down Rome;
Her spasmodic convulsions but servo to attest
That French freedom's a farce, and French justice a jest.
But we—the great nation who've trodden for ages
In the footprints of Liberty's martyrs and sages ;
The descendants of Milton and Sydney—we must
Be undauntedly righteous and daringly just;
The first-born of Freedom, our watchword must be,
" Aid all who aspire and deserve to be free."

Then let Harlequin-Cicero rave as he will--
Let the Cabinet drivel—we've Palmerston still;
With him for her leader, let England uprise,
And speak out in the thunder none dare to despise.
While her red-dragon standard floats far o'er the waves,
" This nation of heroes shall never be slaves."
Temple. J. A.
• Lassoos and thrown battle-axes seem to be weapons used
by the peasant soldiery of Hungary.

LINES
TO THE HUNGARIAN HEROES.
Roll on—roll on—l hear the drum,
And the voices of millions nearer come—
Roll on—roll on—l hear the cry
Of a Nation's voice now raised on high,
Shaking the earth and rending the sky.
'Tis a martial sound, and Victory's there,
For nerved is the mind, and arm made bare;
With burning hearts, and glittering swords—
A PROPIEET'S amongst them, with holy words,
Inspiring with courage what Freedom awards.
March on—march on, ye great and ye brave,
The heart of the freeman disdains to be slave,
For greatness encircles the dazzling lines
Where the Patriot's banner in glory shines,
And courage cemented are found in those lines.
The tyrants shall fall before your might,
And lleav'n will befriend you in every fight,
Snapping asunder the galling chain
Which branded each home, and stinted each plain,
Where the Despot shall never more rule there again.
Haste on—haste on, they are fleeing the camp,
And Liberty's lit up her glorious lamp,
Shining in splendour, a brilliant star,
Shedding its beauties on nations afar,
Fed by the Patriot's blood in war.
Saint Stephen's flag is proudly borne,
And floats o'er the towers of old Comorn,
Whilst the victories gain'd at Raab and Asia,
In the Tyrant's eyes like lightning shall flash,
Bearing all down in their war-like crash.
Move on, and in haste, Vienna's walls
Are growing deserted, and so are her halls.
Move on—move on—for, oh I it is good
To crush an old House of pillage and blood,
Which for centuries past has freedom withstood.
There's music that sounds in wildest alarm,
When Freedom is snapping the Tyrant's arm,
Whose battle in earnest has now begun—
Where the souls of the millions are all as one—
God grant that its struggles may crown the Hun!
A. B. M. WILDMAN.

QUEEN VICTORIA'S VISIT TO DUBLIN.
Och such rushing and crushing,
Such pushing and lushing—
Such racing of carriages, crashin' of cars—
Was ne'er before troublin'
The city of Dublin,
Since Misther Turgesius brought over his wars.
Such music and firin'—
Every sow), too, admirin'
The smilin' young Queen, and her Consort so stately;
In the little Princesses,
In their purty silk dhnisses,
And the smart Prince of Wales duiu' sailor so nately.

There was somethin' so grand in
Her Majesty's landin',
That every one shouted, and every one smiled;
We had people in millions—
Dukes, lords, and civilians,
Policemen, postilions, and all running wild.
Cocked hats with big plumes,
Country folk hirin' rooms;
High arches, quick marches, and han'kerchiefs wavin';
Carriages, marriages,
Dhresses, adhresses,
And nobody dhreamiu' of sleepin' or savin%
In yachts there was haulin' ;
From brats there was bawlin',
When mothers got wedged at the station-house door ;
Commandhers, highlanders,
Directors, projectors,
And trains that were crowded soon made to hold more.
The night, too,
was light, too,
And made much more bright, too,
By gas and by tallow, by wax and bky-rocket.
There were catches and glees,
Boxin' matches and sprees,
And ev'ry ono busy,-"from Peer to pickpocket.
Och, sure 'twas done heavy
All at the grand levee ;
Not to mintion the visit to the Gardens and Bank ;
Or to Trinity College,
Where they've got the dead knowledge ;
And the Schools, where the children all sung in a rank.
'Twas grand altogether,
The sights and the weather ;
The drancin' and prancin', the dhrawin'-room, too.
Here's long live Victoria
In honour and glory,.
And more power to the Prince, and the babes and
review
—Dublin Warder.

THE SECRETARY OF THE LEEDS INFTRMARY.—
After two remands, William Beckwith, the secretary and
collector of the Leeds Infirmary, was brought up at
the Leeds Court-house for final examination on Tuesday.
It was proved that his defalcations amounted to
1,0201. 75., the sums embezzled having been collected by
him during the last three years. Nothing was urged in
his defence, and ho was committed for trial at the Bo-
rough Sessions, which will be held in October next.
ENORMOLS RATTLE- SNAYE.—A rattle-snake was
killed, at Chesser village, on Tuesday, by Mr. W. Dick-
inson, which measures six feet in length without the
head.mente d Its
with girth
a
li
ng
ih t e
tr
string of fifteen rattles. We inches, and its tail was onto,
believe this is the largest rattle-snake ever killed in this
region..—,Springfield Republican.