But let the floods rush on! let the arrow's flight be sped! Why should they reck whose task is done?—There slumber Britain's dead.

The mountain-storms rise high in the snowy Pyrenees, And toss the pine-boughs through the sky, like rose-leaves on the breeze;

But let the storm rage on! let the fresh wreaths be shed! For the Roncesvalles' field is won-there slumber Britain's dead.

On the frozen deep's repose 'tis a dark and dreadful hour, When round the ship the ice-fields close, and the northern night-clouds lower;

But let the ice-drift on! let the cold blue desert spread ! Their course with mast and flag is done-even there sleep Britain's dead.

The warlike of the isles-the men of field and waveAre not the rocks their funeral piles? the seas and shores their grave?

Go, stranger, track the deep, free, free the white sail spread!

Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, where rest not Britain's dead!

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE,

THE HERO OF CORUNNA.

A.D. 1809.

NOT a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;

But nothing he'll reck if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock tolled the hour for retiring, And we heard by the distant and random gun, That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

BRITISH VOLUNTEERS.

UNDAUNTED men of England,

They said our blood was cold,
That nothing more could rouse us,
Except the love of gold;
That cent. per cent., not freedom,

Was all our thought and aim,
And all the glory of our sires
The shadow of a name.
Shout forth a bold denial

With hearty British cheers,

And rifle's crack that shall not slack, Our gallant Volunteers.

Undaunted men of England,
If any foe alive

Be fool enough to think so,

Why, let him think and thrive;

But if his folly lead him

To try us where we stand,

Each man shall be as good as three
To guard his native land.

Come one, come ten, come thousands,

Come millions, swords and spears; Where ten shall come, not two shall go, So say the Volunteers.

BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

A.D. 1815.

ON came the whirlwind-like the last
But fiercest sweep of tempest blast.

On came the whirlwind-steel gleams broke
Like lightning through the rolling smoke.
The war was waked anew;

Three hundred cannon-mouths roared loud,

And from their throats, with flash and cloud,
Their showers of iron threw.
Beneath their fire in full career,
Rushed on the ponderous cuirassier,
The lancer couched his ruthless spear,
And hurrying as to havoc near
The cohorts' eagles flew.

In one dark torrent, broad and strong,
The advancing onset rolled along,
Forth harbingered by fierce acclaim,

That from the shroud of smoke and flame,
Pealed wildly the Imperial name.

But on the British heart were lost
The terrors of the charging host;
For not an eye the storm that viewed,
Changed its proud glance of fortitude.
Nor was one forward footstep stayed,
As dropped the dying and the dead.
Fast as their ranks the thunders tear,
Fast they renewed each serried square ;
And on the wounded and the slain
Closed their diminished files again;

Till from their line scarce spears'-lengths three

Emerging from the smoke they see
Helmet and plume and panoply.

Then waked their fire at once!
Each musketeer's revolving knell
As fast as regularly fell,

As when they practise to display
Their discipline on festal day.

Then down went helm and lance,
Down were the eagle-banners sent,
Down reeling steeds and riders went,
Corslets were pierced and pennons rent;
And to augment the fray,

Wheeled full against their staggering flanks,
The English horsemen's foaming ranks
Forced their resistless way:

Then to the musket-knell succeeds

The clash of swords, the neigh of steeds:
As plies the smith his clanging trade,
Against the cuirass rang the blade;
And while, amid their close array
The well-served cannon rent their way;
And while, amid their scattered band
Raged the fierce rider's bloody brand,
Recoiled, in common rout and fear,
Lancer, and guard, and cuirassier,
Horsemen and foot,-a mingled host,

Their leaders fallen, their standards lost.