LAKE LEMAN. 207 But that is fancy-for the starlight dews Weeping themselves away, till they infuse The sky is changed!-and such a change! O night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! And this is in the night :-Most glorious night! Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. BYRON. THE SONG OF THE MARINER. A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, “O for a soft and gentle wind!" But give to me the snoring breeze There's tempest in yon hornèd moon, The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashing free— While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea! CUNNINGHAM. BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. OF Nelson and the North All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand; And the prince of all the land Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; On the lofty British line; It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, And the boldest held his breath, But the might of England flush'd Oer the deadly space between. P "Hearts of oak," our captains cried! when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. Again! again! again! And the havock did not slack, To our cheering sent us back ; Their shots along the deep slowly boom :— As they strike the shatter'd sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom. Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd them o'er the wave, With the crews, at England's feet, Then Denmark bless'd our chief, BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. As Death withdrew his shades from the day; While the sun look'd smiling bright O'er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away! Now joy, old England, raise! While the wine-cup shines in light; By thy wild and stormy steep, Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave! While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Of the brave! CAMPBELL. 211 |