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She was a maiden city, bright and free;
No guile seduced, no force could violate,
And when she took unto herself a mate,
She must espouse the everlasting Sea.

And what if she had seen those glories fade,
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,-
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid

When her long life hath reach'd its final day :
Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
Of that which once was great has pass'd away.



O Friend! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest
To think that now our life is only drest
For show ; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,

Or groom !--We must run glittering like a brook
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest;
The wealthiest man among us is the best :
No grandeur now in Nature or in book

Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry; and these we adore :
Plain living and high thinking are no more:

The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household laws.


213. THE SAME.

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour :
England hath need of thee : she is a fen
Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,

Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men :
O! raise us up, return to us again ;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;

So didst thou travel on life's common way
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest dutios on herself did lay.



When I have borne in memory what has tamed Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold,-some fears unnamed

I had, my Country !-am I to be blamed ?
But when I think of thee, and what thou art,
Verily, in the bottom of my heart
Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.

For dearly must we prize thee; we who find
In thee a bulwark of the cause of men ;
And I by my affection was beguiled :

What wonder if a Poet now and then,
Among the many movements of his mind,
Felt for thee as a lover or a child !



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 that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainéd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, 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.



It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door

Was sitting in the sun ;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found ; He came to ask what he had found That was so large and smooth and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy

Who stood expectant by ;
And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh
“ 'Tis some poor fellow's skull,” said he,

“ Who fell in the great victory.

“ I find them in the garden,

For there's many here about ;

And often when I go to plough

The ploughshare turns them out. For many thousand men,” said he,

“ Were slain in that great victory

“ Now tell us what 'twas all about,"

Young Peterkin he cries ;
And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes ;
Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for.

“ It was the English,” Kaspar cried,

“Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for

I could not well make out. But every body said," quoth he,

s That 'twas a famous victory.

My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,

And he was forced to fly :
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

“ With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then

And newborn baby 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 :

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