O'er a wide and woeful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

VII.

Now joy, old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,

While the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,

By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!

VIII.

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died ;

With the gallant good Riou:

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!

While the billow mournful rolls

And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

-THOMAS CAMPBELL.

14.

HOHENLINDEN.

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 arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven;
Then rushed the steed, to battle driven;
And louder than the bolts of Heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainèd 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.

- THOMAS CAMPBELL.

15.

THE BATTLE.

I. BEFORE.

By the hope within us springing,
Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun whose light is bringing
Chains or freedom, death or life-
Oh! remember life can be

No charm for him who lives not free!
Like the day-star in the wave
Sinks a hero in his grave,

'Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

Happy is he o'er whose decline

The smiles of home may soothing shine, And light him down the steep of yearsBut oh! how blessed they sink to rest, Who close their eyes on victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers

Now the foeman's cheek turns white, When his heart that field remembers, Where we tamed his tyrant might!

Never let him bind again

A chain, like that we broke from then.
Hark! the horn of combat calls

Ere the golden evening falls,

May we pledge that horn in triumph round!

Many a heart that now beats high,
In slumber cold at night shall lie,

Nor waken even at victory's sound

But oh! how blessed that hero's sleep,
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep.

II. AFTER.

Night closed around the conqueror's way
And lightnings showed the distant hill,
Where those who lost that dreadful day,
Stood few and faint, but fearless still.

The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,
Forever dimmed, forever crost -
Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,
When all but life and honor's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,
And valor's task, moved slowly by,

While mute they watched, till morning's beam
Should rise and give them light to die.

There's yet a world, where souls are free,
Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss;
If death that world's bright opening be,
Oh! who would live a slave in this?

THEY have fetched the steed with care, in the harness

Past the court and through the doors, across the rushes of the floors,

But they goad him up the stair.

Then from out her bower chambère, did the Duchess May repair:

Toll slowly.

"Tell me now what is your need," said the lady, "of this steed,

That ye goad him up the stair?"

Calm she stood; unbodkined through, fell her dark hair to her shoe; Toll slowly.

And the smile upon her face, ere she left the tiring-glass, Had not time enough to go.

"Get thee back, sweet Duchess May! hope is gone like

"One half-hour completes the breach: and thy lord grows wild of speech

Get thee in, sweet lady, and pray!

"In the east tower, highest of all, loud he cries for steed from stall:

Toll slowly.

"He would ride as far," quoth he, “as for love and victory,

Though he rides the castle wall.

"And we fetch the steed from stall, up where never a hoof did fall

Toll slowly.

"Wifely prayer meets deathly need: may the sweet Heavens hear thee plead

If he rides the castle wall!