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But Linden saw another sight,
The darkness of her scenery.
To join the dreadful revelry.
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.
And charge with all thy chivalry !
Old Kaspar's work was done,
Was sitting in the sun;
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 ;
The ploughshare turns them out.
Young Peterkin he cries;
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 everybody said,' quoth he, • 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 :
After the field was won ;
Lay rotting in the sun :
And our good Prince Eugene ;'
Said little Wilhelmine ;
nay.. my little girl,' quoth he,
Who this great fight did win.'
Quoth little Peterkin :-
PRO PATRIA MORI
When he who adcres thee has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
Of a life that for thee was resign'd !
Thy tears shall efface their decree;
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 iningled 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.
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
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 gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed
And smoothed 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,But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
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. Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.
SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,