day. Thos vaunted ramparts of Italy proved insufficient, you trav ersed them as rapidly as you did the Apennines. Successes so numerous and brilliant have carried joy to the heart of your country. Your representatives have decreed a festival, to be celebrated in all the communes of the Republic, in honor of your victories. There, will your fathers, mothers, wives, sisters, all who hold you dear, rejoice over your triumphs, and boast that you belong to them. Yes, Soldiers, you have done much; but much still remains for you to do. Shall it be said of us that we knew how to conquer, but not to profit by victory? Shall posterity reproach us with having found a Capua in Lombardy? Nay, fellow-soldiers! I see you already eager to cry "to arms!" Inaction fatigues you; and days lost to glory are to you days lost to happiness. Let us, then, begone! We have yet many forced marches to make; enemies to vanquish ; laurels to gather; and injuries to avenge! Let those who have sharpened the poniards of civil war in France, who have pusillanimously assassinated our Ministers, who have burned our vessels at Toulon,- let them now tremble! The hour of vengeance has knolled! But let not the People be disquieted. We are the friends of every People: and more especially of the descendants of the Brutuses, the Scipios, and other great men to whom we look as bright exemplars. To reestablish the Capitol; to place there with honor the statues of the heroes who made it memorable; to rouse the Roman People, unnerved by many centuries of oppression, such will be some of the fruits of our victories. They will constitute an epoch for posterity. To you, Soldiers, will belong the immortal honor of redeeming the fairest portion of Europe. The French People, free and respected by the whole world, shall give to Europe a glorious peace, which shall indemnify it for all the sacrifices which it has borne, the last six years. Then, by your own firesides you shall repose; and your fellowcitizens, when they point out any one of you, shall say: "He belonged army of Italy!" to the 48. LORD BYRON TO THE GREEKS.-Alphonse De Lamartine. Original Translation. A STRANGER to your clime, O men of Greece! - born under a sun less pure, of an ancestry less renowned, than yours, I feel how unworthy is the offering of the life I bring you - you, who number kings, heroes and demi-gods, among your progenitors. But, throughout the world, wherever the lustre of your history has shed its rays, -wherever the heart of man has thrilled at the thought of glory, or softened at the mention of misfortune, Greece may count a friend, and her children an avenger. I come not here in the vain hope to stimulate the courage of men already roused and resolved. One sole cry remained for you, and you have uttered it. Your language has now one only word - Liberty! Ah! what other invocation need the men of Sparta - of Athens to bid them rise? These blue Heavens, these mountains, these waters, - here are your orators here is your present Demosthenes! Wherever the eye can range, wherever the feet can tread, your consecrated soil recounts a triumph or a glorious death. From Leuctra to Marathon, every inch of ground responds to you—cries to you- for vengeance! liberty! glory! virtue! country! These voices, which tyrants cannot stifle, demand, not words, but steel. T is here! Receive it! Arm! Let the thirsting earth at length be refreshed with the blood of her oppressors! What sound more awakening to the brave than the clank of his country's fetters? Should the sword ever tremble in your grasp, remember yesterday! think of to-morrow! For myself, in return for the alliance which I bring you, I ask but the recompense of an honorable grave. I ask but the privilege of shedding my blood with you, in your sacred cause. I ask but to know, in dying, that I too belong to Greece-to liberty! Yes, might the Pilgrim hope that, on the pillars of a new Parthenon, his name might, one day, be inscribed,—or, that in the nobler mausoleum of your hearts his memory might be cherished, he were well content. The tomb where Freedom weeps can never have been prematurely reached by its inmate. Such martyrdom is blessed, indeed. What higher fortune can ambition covet? 49. BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE, 1809. Rev. Charles Wolfe. Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor 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 hollowed 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, 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, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory! 60. THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN, 1800.-Thomas Campbell But Linden saw another sight, The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, And redder yet those fires shall glow 'Tis morn; but scarce yon lurid sun Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, And charge with all thy chivalry' 51. SONG OF THE GREEKS, 1822.-Thomas Campbell. AGAIN to the battle, Achaians! Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance; The pale dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves. Their spirits are hovering o'er us, And the sword shall to glory restore us. Ah! what though no succor advances, Are stretched in our aid?- Be the combat our own! Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious. A breath of submission we breathe not: The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not; Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves: This day- shall ye blush for its story? Or brighten your lives with its glory? -O, say, shall they shriek in despair, Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair? Accursed may his memory blacken, Our women If a coward there be that would slacken Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from, and named for, the god-like of earth. Strike home! - and the world shall revere us Old Greece lightens up with emotion! Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee ring, That were cold, and extinguished in sadness; Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving ms, Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms, When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens! 52. FALL OF WARSAW, 1794.-Thomas Campbell. O! SACRED Truth! thy triumph ceased a while, Warsaw's last champion from her heights surveyed O Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save! He said; and on the rampart heights arrayed Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, |