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, But Linden saw another sight By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Then shook the hills, with thunder riven! But redder yet those fires shall glow 'Tis morn-but scarce yon level sun The combat deepens-On, ye brave, Few, few shall part where many meet! 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 Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; It was ten of April morn by the chime: But the might of England flush'd And her van the fleeter rush'd "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 As they strike the shatter'd sail; 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: Then Denmark bless'd our chief, That he gave her wounds repose ;- 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 Now joy, old England, raise! While the wine-cup shines in light; Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave! 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, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin confined his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; Few and short were the prayers we said, But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; 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, Wolfe. XVI.-THE BATTLE OF ALBUERA. HARK! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, And |