Just at your ear, all night you hear The wailing whippoorwill; The turkey tramps through the hollow near, The owl hoots from the hill; The katydid, too, if the summer wake her, Pipes out from the flame-bush nigh: Sure, the song of the midnight woods is sweeter Than mortal minstrelsy! Hillo! hillo! And hark! the sound that swells around! How mournfully it gush'd! A groan of air in the tree-trops drown'd, A voice, half-heard, then hush'd; The ghostly whisper, the sob, and sigh, The dirge of the piny breeze, As spirits were clustering over-head, Like birds, upon the trees. Hillo! Hillo! Then Memory wakes from her silent cell,— Perhaps a tear is shed For the few we love, or loved, so well, The distant, or the dead. But a truce to sorrow—the night is waxing, The fire is burning low: We sleep as well in the dry pine-wood As ever in sheets of snow. Hillo! Hillo! [Footnote 1: The greater wood-pecker.] THE BATTLE OF LODI. BY MAJOR HENRY LEE.[1] [Footnote 1: We are pleased at an opportunity afforded us of presenting our readers in anticipation with an extract of great beauty from the _second_ volume of Major Lee's Life of Napoleon. This volume will not be published for some time—many laborious investigations operating to delay the work much longer than was anticipated by its author. We are indebted to Major Lee himself for the MS,—who sends it to us from Paris.]