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SONG OF MARION'S MEN.
Have you guarded well the coast ?
VI. — SONG OF MARION'S MEN.
OUR band is few, but true and tried, our leader frank and bold,
Well knows the fair and friendly moon the band that Marion
leads The glitter of their rifles, the scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb across the moonlight plain ; 'T is life to feel the night-wind that lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp- a moment Back to the pathless forest, before the peep of day. Grave men there are by broad Santee, grave men with hoary hairs : Their hearts are all with Marion, for Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band with kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, and tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, and lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton for ever from our shore.
VII. - DARIUS TO HIS ARMY. This day, 0 soldiers, will terminate or establish the largest empire that any age has known. But recently lords of all the climes from the Hellespont to the ocean, we have now to fight, not for glory, but for safety, and, for what we prize above safety
- liberty! If we can not make a stand here, no place of retreat remains. By continued armaments every thing in our rear is exhausted. The cities are deserted. The very fields are abandoned by their cultivators. Our wives and children, who have followed the levies, are but so many spoils prepared for the enemy, unless we interpose our bodies as a rampart before these dearest objects and pledges of affection.
On my part, I have collected an army such as the largest plain can hardly contain. I have chosen a field of battle where our whole line can act. The rest depends on yourselves. Dare to conquer, and
We hear of the enemy's reputation. Reputation ! - As if that were a weapon which brave men had not learnt to despise ! These spacious plains expose the poverty of your foe- a poverty which the Cilician mountains concealed. We perceive thin ranks, wire-drawn wings, a center quite drained ; while their last line faces to the rear, in readiness to fly.
If we but conquer now, all the victories of the war will be transferred to us. The enemy have no place of refuge; here the Euphrates bars them in, and there the Tigris. A heavy booty impedes their operations. Entangled in the spoils they !ave won from us, they may be easily overwhelmed ; and thus the means of our triumph will be its reward.
Does a name startle you ? — the name of Alexander ? Let girls and cowards stand in awe of it! Imprudent, reckless, absurd, our own irresolution, and not his courage, has been the cause of his successes hitherto. Nothing that is not built on moderation can last. His prosperity has reached its height, and punishment now awaits his presumption.
By our guardian deities, O soldiers ! by the eternal fire carried before us on our altars; by the dazzling sun which rises within the limits of my dominions ; by the immortal memory of Cyrus, who transferred the empire from the Medes and Lydians to the Persians ; by your hopes of freedom and your scorn of oppression, I con-jure' you to vindicate your name and nation from the last disgrace! In your own right hands you carry liberty, power, and every future reliance. Whoever despises death, escapes it.
Follow me, then, for home and country, family and freedom, follow me to the field !
QUINTUS CURTIUS (paraphrase from).
VIII. - HIGHLAND WAR-SONG.
corpse uninterred, the bride at the altar;
tenant and master.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
* A pibroch (pronounced pi'brok) is a martial air played with the bagpipe. Donuil, pronounce Don'nil.
IX. ARMINIUS TO HIS SOLDIERS.
Much-injured friends, your slavish hours are past !
X. POLAND. Is Freedom's latest struggle o'er? Is Poland fallen to rise no more? Is Kosciusko’s name forgotten ? Is the spirit fled, that once to deathless glory led; and never lessening fame? No! though the imperial Russ decree Poland shall never more be free, — she yet shall burst her chain, — again the sword of Freedom wield, and in the blood-red battle-field her arch foe meet again.
Who, but the driveling despots, dream, — all silent though
HENRY V. TO HIS SOLDIERS.
- her noblo spirit fled ? She sleeps a short and troubled sleep — but, when she wakes, let despots weep!—0, Poland is not dead! Still, still, in Tyranny's despite, fair Liberty's all quenchless light shall stronger, brighter shine! Fresh blood shall rush through Poland's veins, and Russia's self throw off her chains, and hail the maid divine !
Was Ostrolenska's fight in vain, - in vain the blood on Grochow's plain, like water freely poured? And still must Kosciusko’s land be crushed beneath the withering hand of a barbarian lord ? Perish the thought ! our dawning day shall yet see Poland spurn the sway of Moscow's haughty czar. Till all the world shall own her free, or Time itself shall cease to be, her cry shall still be - WAR!
XI. SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE.
HENRY V. TO HIS SOLDIERS AT THE SIEGE OF
ONCE more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
peace, there's nothing so becomes a man