Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men:
O! raise us up, return to us again;

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart :
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;
So didst thou travel on life's common way
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

CCXIV

W. WORDSWORTH

When I have borne in memory what has tamed
Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart
When men change swords for ledgers, and desert
The student's bower for gold,—some fears unnamed
I had, my Country ! -am I to be blamed ?
Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,
Verily, in the bottom of my heart

Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.

For dearly must we prize thee; we who find
In thee a bulwark for the cause of men ;
And I by my affection was beguiled :

What wonder if a Poet now and then,
Among the many movements of his mind,
Felt for thee as a lover or a child!

CCXV

W. WORDSWORTH

HOHENLINDEN

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

Hohenlinden

But Linden saw another sight,

When the drum beat at dead of night
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven;
Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven;
And louder than the bolts of Heaven
Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainéd snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye Brave
Who rush to glory, or the grave !
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part, where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

T. CAMPBELL

231

CCXVI

AFTER BLENHEIM

It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round
Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;

He came to ask what he had found
That was so large and smooth and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy
Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh

'Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he, Who fell in the great victory.

• I find them in the garden,
For there's
́s many here about ;
And often when I go to plough

The ploughshare turns them out.
For many thousand men,' said he,
Were slain in that great victory.'

Now tell us what 'twas all about,'
Young Peterkin he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
'Now tell us all about the war,

And what they fought each other for.'

After Blenheim

It was the English,' Kaspar cried,
Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for
I could not well make out.
But every body said,' quoth he,
'That 'twas a famous victory.

My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly :

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

'With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then

And newborn baby died :

But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun :

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

'Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won

And our good Prince Eugene ;

'Why 'twas a very wicked thing!' Said little Wilhelmine;

233

• Nay nay.. my little girl,' quoth he,

'It was a famous victory.

And every body praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win.'
But what good came of it at last?'
Quoth little Peterkin :-

'Why that I cannot tell,' said he,
But 'twas a famous victory.'

R. SOUTHEY

CCXVII

PRO PATRIA MORI

When he who adores thee has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind,

O! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign'd!

Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree;

For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
Every thought of my reason was thine :

In

my last humble prayer to the Spirit above Thy name shall be mingled with mine!

O! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live The days of thy glory to see;

But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

T. MOORE

CCXVIII

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.