Ex. 127.

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

'My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by ;

They burned his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he filed,

And knew not where to rest his head.

'With fire and sword the country round
They wasted far and wide;

And many a wretched mother, then,
And new-born infant, 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 Marlborough won,

And our good Prince Eugene;'

Why 'twas a very wicked thing,'

Said little Wilhelmine;

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

'It was a famous victory.

'And everybody 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.'

The Loss of the Royal George.
Toll for the brave!

The brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave,
Fast by their native shore !

Southey.

Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel,
And laid her on her side;

A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset ;

Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!
Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought;
His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak ;
She ran upon no rock;

;

His sword was in his sheath
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down
With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes!

And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again,

Full-charged with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone;

His victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the waves no more.

Ex. 128.

Eliza at the Battle of Minden.

Now stood Eliza on the wood-crowned height,
O'er Minden's plain, spectatress of the fight;
Sought, with bold eye, amid the bloody strife,
Her dearer self, the partner of her life;
From hill to hill the rushing host pursued,
And viewed his banner, or believed she viewed.

Cowper.

Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread
Fast by his hand one lisping boy she led ;
And one fair girl, amid the loud alarm,
Slept on her kerchief, cradled in her arm;
While round her brows bright beams of honour dart,
And love's warm eddies circle in her heart.
Near and more near the intrepid beauty pressed,
Saw, through the driving smoke, his dancing crest,
Heard the exulting shout, 'They run! they run!"
"O joy!' she cried, 'He's safe! the battle's won!'
A ball now hisses through the airy tides-
(Some fury wings it, and some demon guides!)
Parts the fine locks her graceful head that deck,
Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck:
The red stream issuing from her azure veins,
Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains.

Ah, me!' she cried, and, sinking on the ground, Kissed her dear babes, regardless of the wound; 'Oh! cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn! Wait, gushing life, oh! wait my love's return! Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far! The angel, Pity, shuns the walks of war!

!

Oh! spare, ye war hounds, spare their tender age
On me, on me,' she cried, 'exhaust your rage!'
Then, with weak arms, her weeping babes caressed,
And, sighing, hid them in her blood-stained vest.
From tent to tent the impatient warrior flies,
Fear in his heart and frenzy in his eyes;
'Eliza!' loud along the camp he calls,

'Eliza !' echoes through the canvas walls;

Quick through the murmuring gloom his footsteps tread
O'er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead;
Vault o'er the plain, and, in the tangled wood,
Lo! dead Eliza weltering in her blood!

Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds;
With open arms and sparkling eyes he bounds :-
'Speak low,' he cries, and gives his little hand,
'Mamma's asleep upon the dew-cold sand.
Alas! we both with cold and hunger quake-
Why do you weep?-mamma will soon awake.'
'She'll wake no more!' the hopeless mourner cried,
Upturned his eyes, and clasped his hands, and sighed ;
Stretched on the ground a while entranced he lay,
And pressed warm kisses on the lifeless clay;
And then upsprung with wild, convulsive start,
And all the father kindled in his heart.

'O Heaven!' he cried, 'my first rash vow forgive!
These bind to earth, for these I pray to live!'
Round his chill babes he wrapped his crimson vest,
And clasped them, sobbing, to his aching breast.
Darwin.

Ex. 129.

The Downfall of Poland.

O sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile,
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile,
When leagued oppression poured to northern wars
Her whiskered pandours and her fierce hussars ;
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn;
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,
Presaging wrath to Poland-and to man!
Warsaw's lastchampion from her height surveyed,
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid :

O Heaven!' he cried, 'my bleeding country save!
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave!
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men, our country yet remains!
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high,
And swear for her to live-with her to die!'
He said, and on the rampart heights arrayed
His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed;
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ;
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
Revenge or death!' the watchword and reply;
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm.
In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few,.
From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew ;
O bloodiest picture in the book of time!
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime :
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, or mercy in her woe;

Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear,
Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career;
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shrieked as Kosciusko fell!

The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there;
Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air;
On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow,
His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below.

The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way,
Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay !
Hark! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall,
A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call!
Earth shook-red meteors flashed along the sky,
And conscious Nature shuddered at the cry.

Oh! righteous Heaven, ere Freedom found a grave,
Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save?
Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod,
That smote the foes of Zion and of God;

That crushed proud Ammon, when his iron car
Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar ?
Where was the storm that slumbered till the host
Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast;
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow,
And heaved an ocean on their march below?
Departed spirits of the mighty dead!

Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled!

Friends of the world, restore your swords to man ;
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van.
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone,
And make her arm puissant as your own.
Oh! once again, to Freedom's cause return
The patriot Tell-the Bruce of Bannockburn!

Campbell.

Ex. 130.

Marco Bozzaris.

At midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power.

At midnight, in the forest shades,

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood,
On old Platæa's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air

The sons of sires who conquered there,

With arm to strike and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.

An hour passed on, the Turk awoke ;
That bright dream was his last;
He woke to hear his sentries shriek :

'To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!'