Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's stately

fane,

And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless

plain;

Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of

Trent;

Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile,

And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of

Carlisle.

Macaulay.

XIII.—THE BATTLE OF 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 :

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 those fires shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly!

'Tis morn-but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-cloud 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!

Campbell.

XIV.—THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

OF Nelson and the North

Sing the glorious day's renown,

When to battle fierce came forth

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
Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line;

It was ten of April morn by the chime:
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath,
For a time.

But the might of England flush'd
To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rush'd
O'er the deadly space between.

"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,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back;
Their shots along the deep slowly boom:
Then ceased-and all is wail,

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, "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save:—

So

peace instead of death let us bring:
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our King."

Then Denmark bless'd our chief,

That he gave her wounds repose ;-
And the sounds of joy and grief,

From her people wildly rose ;

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!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,

While the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amid that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore !

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant good Riou!

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,

And the mermaid's song condoles,

Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

Campbell.

XV.-THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Nor a drum was heard, not 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 sod with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And our lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin confined his breast,

Not 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 hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lowly 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 little 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 struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
Of the enemy sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.

Wolfe.

XVI.-THE BATTLE OF ALBUERA.

HARK! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ?-the fires of death,
The bale fires flash on high; from rock to rock
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe;
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,

Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.

Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun,
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
eye that scorcheth all it glares upon.

And