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Rome shall perish-write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renown'd, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the groundHark! the Gaul is at her gates!

Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.

Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command.

Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they.

Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow;
Rush'd to battle, fought, and died;
Dying hurl'd them at the foe;

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Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due ;
Empire is on us bestow'd,

Shame and ruin wait for you.

W. Cowper

XCI

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground, over

power'd,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought, from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track; 'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was

young;

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers

sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to

part,

My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us,-rest, thou art weary and worn!
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
T. Campbell

XCII

LOVE AND GLORY

Young Henry was as brave a youth
As ever graced a gallant story;
And Jane was fair as lovely truth,

She sigh'd for Love, and he for Glory!

With her his faith he meant to plight,
And told her many a gallant story;
Till war, their coming joys to blight,
Call'd him away from Love to Glory!

Young Henry met the foe with pride;

Jane followed, fought! ah, hapless story!
In man's attire, by Henry's side,

She died for Love, and he for Glory.

T. Dibdin

XCIII

AFTER BLENHEIM

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 a 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,
'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 new-born 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;

But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory.

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