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I had, my Country !-am I to be blamed ?
Now, 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
And I by my affection was beguiled
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
The darkness of her scenery.
To join the dreadful revelry.
Far flash'd the red artillery,
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
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part, where many meet !
It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
Was sitting in the sun ;
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round
In playing there had found ;
Old Kaspar took it from the boy
Who stood expectant by ;
And with a natural sigh
· 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 ;
With wonder-waiting eyes ;
Who put the French to rout;
I could not well make out. But every body said,' quoth he, That 'twas a famous victory.
"My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by ;
And he was forced to fly :
With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And new-born baby died :
After the field was won ;
Lay rotting in the sun :
* Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won
And our good Prince Eugene ;
Said little Wilhelmine ;
And every body praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win.'
Quoth little Peterkin :
PRO PATRIA MORI
When he who adores thee has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind, 0! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign'd ? Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree ; For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee.
With thee were the dreams of my earliest love,
Every thought of my reason was thine :
Thy name shall be mingled with mine!
The days of thy glory to see ; But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried ;
O’er the grave where our Hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a Warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gaz'd on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, That the Foe and the Stranger would tread o'er his
head, And we far away on the billow !
Lightly they'll talk of the Spirit that's gone
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring : And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.