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Quoth little Peterkin. "Why, that I cannot tell," said he; '' But 'twas a famous victory.'' 66


Ye Mariners Of England

A Naval Ode*

Ye mariners of England!

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep

While the stormy winds do blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow. 10

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave!—

For the deck it was their field of fame,

And Ocean was their grave:

Where Blake and mighty Nelson foil,

Your manly hearts shall glow,

As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;

While the battle rages loud and lung,

And the stormy winds do blow. 20

Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain waves,

Her home is on the deep,

With thunders from hor native oak,

She quells the floods below,—

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy winds do blow;

When the battle rages loud and long.

And the stormy winds do blow. 30

The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn,

Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return.

Then, then, ye ocean warriors!

Our song and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;

When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow. 40

•This poem was written. It Is said. In 1SOO, on the prospect of a war with Russia (see line ft): but It must have undertone some Inter revision, for Nelson (line 15) fell nt Trafalgar In 1805. Admiral Robert Blake died at sea In 1057.


On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the nutrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolliug 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. 8

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
F.ach 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. 16

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained 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. 24

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who msh 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. 32

CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823)
The Burial Of Sir John Moorej

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note.
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

t At the Bavarian village of Hohenllnden, not far from Munich, the Austrian army (referred to in this poem as the •Hun") was defeated bv the French (the "Frank") In December, 1800. Campbell did not witness the battle, as a pleasing tradition relates, but he was on the continent at the time and witnessed at least one skirmish. Scott greatly admired this ballad, though the author himself spoke somewhat contemptuously of Its "drum and trumpet lines."

t Sir John Moore, a British general, was killed at

Corunna in January, lROii, just as the British troops, retreating from the French, were about to embark, though he lived long enough to hear that the French were beaten hack. lie was hurled at nlRht In the citadel.

We buried Uim darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
Ami the lantern dimly burning. 8

Xo useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Xot 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,
Ami we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 16

We thought, as we hollowed 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. 2t

But half of our weary task was done

When the clock struck the note for retiring;

And we heard the distant and random gun
Of the enemy 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. 32

THOMAS MOORE (1779-1852)

The Harp That Once Through Tara's Hai.i.ks

The harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,
Xow hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts that once bent high for praise

Xow feel that pulse no more! s

Xo more to chiefs and ladies bright

The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone that breaks at night

Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,

The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks,

To show that still she lives. 1*

I Tara Hill, some twenty miles from Dublin. Ii said to have boon the scat of the ancient kings of Ireland.

The Minstrel. Boy

The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you'll find him; His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.— "Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,

"Though all the world betrays thee, One sword at least thy rights shall guard,

One faithful harp shall praise thee!" 8

The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman's chain

Could not briug his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its cords asunder;
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,

Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the brave and free,

They shall never sound in slavery!"

Oft, In The Stilly Xioht
(Scotch Air)
Oft. in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me;
The smiles, the tears,
Of boyhood's years.
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Xow dimmed and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken! 1°
Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends, so linked together,
I "ve seen around me fall,

Like leaves in wintry weather;
I feel like one

Who treads alone 20
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled.
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Sail Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

CHARLES LAMB (1775-1834 'The. Old Familiar Faces I have had playmates, I have had companions. In my days of childhood, in my joyful Bcbooldays—

All, all arc gone, the old familiar faces.

I have boon laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies—

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. *

I loved a love once, fairest among women; Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her—

AH, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend lias no man; Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him. to muse on the old familiar faces. 12

Ghost like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,

Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse. Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother. Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling,'

So might we talk of the old familiar faces— is

How some they have died, and some they have left me.

And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, ttie old familiar faces.

WALTER SAVAGE LAX DOR (1775-1864) Rose Avlmer*

Ah what avails the sceptred race,

Ah what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace!

Rose Avlmer, all were thine.

Hose Avlmer. whom these wakeful eyes

May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs

I consecrate to thee.

LEIGH HUNT (1784 1859)

To The Grasshopper And The CRicKETt

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass. Catching your heart up at the feel of June, Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon. When even the bees lag at the summoning brass;

• Hose, a daughter of Baron Aylmer. and a youthful companion of Lander, died in India in ISOO.

t Written In competition with Keats, whose sonnet mny be seen on p. 491'.

And you, warm little housekeeper, who class With those who think the candles come !<»« soon,

Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;
O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,
One to the fields, the other to the hearth.
Both have your sunshine; both, though small,
are strong

At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth

To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song— Indoors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.


Jenny kissed me when we met,

Jumping from the chair she sat in; Time, you thief, who love to get

Sweets into your list, put that in: Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say 1 'm growing old, but add,

Jenny kissed me.

Abou Ben Adhem

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room.
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding peace hail made Ben Adhem bold.
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its

And, with a look made of all sweet accord. 9
Answered, "The names of those who love the

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,''

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low.

But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee. then.

Write me as one that loves his fellow-men. "J

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

It came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,—

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

t This line is carved on Hunt's monument in Kensal Orecn Cemetery.


Litters From Teignmouth. I.—Our Baix{

You'll come to our ball;—since we parted

I've thought of you more than I '11 say; Indeed, I was half broken-hearted

For a week, when they took you away. Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers

Our walks on the Ness and the Den, And echoed the musical numbers

Which you used to sing to me then. I know the romance, since it's over,

'Twere idle, or worse, to recall;— I know you're a terrible rover;

But, Clarence, you'll come to our Ball! 12

It's only a year since, at College,

Y'ou put on your cap and your gown; But, Clarence, you're grown out of knowledge,

And changed from the spur to the crown; The voice that was best when it faltered,

Is fuller and firmer in tone: Anil the smile that should never have altered,—

Dear Clarence,—it is not your own; Your cravat was badly selected,

Your coat don't become you at all; And why is your hair so neglected!

You must have it curled for our Ball. 24

I've often been out upon Haldon

To look for a covey with Pup; I've often been over to Shaldon,

To see how your boat is laid up.
In spite of the terrors of Aunty,

I've ridden the filly you broke;
And I've studied your sweet little Dante

In the shade of your favourite oak:
When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence,

I sat in your love of a shawl; And I'll wear what you brought me from Florence,

Perhaps, if you'll come to our Ball. 36

I This Is a specimen of the half gay. half grave rcrt tie socirte of which I'raea was a master. Teignmouth Is a watering-place in Devonshire. The various places named belong to the locality. The Ness is a promontory. The Den Is a promenade formed by n sand-bank between the town and the sea. Haldon is a range of hills: Shaldon, a village just across the river Teign: Dawlish, another seaside resort three miles away. As for the other allusions. Sir Thomas Lawrence was a famous portrait painter of that date (181*9) ; National Schools (line 38) had lately been established at various places by a national society for the education of the poor: "Captain Rock" was n fictitious name signed to public notices by one of the Irish insurgents of 1822: "Hock is a kind of wine —Hochbeimer: a "Blue" is a "blue-stocking" —a woman affecting literature and politics.

You'll find us all changed since you vanished;

We've set up a National School; And waltzing is utterly banished;

And Ellen has married a fool;
The Major is going to travel;

Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout;
The walk is laid down with fresh gravel;

Papa is laid up with the gout;
And Jane has gone on with her easels,

And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul;
And Fanny is sick with the measles,

And I'll tell you the rest at the Ball. 48

You'll meet all your beauties;—the Lily,

And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm, And Lucy, who made me so silly

At Dawlish, by taking your arm; Miss Manners, who always abused you,

For talking so much about Hock;
And her sister, who often amused you,

By raving of rebels and Bock;
And something which surely would answer,

An heiress quite fresh from Bengal:— 8o, though you were seldom a dancer,

You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball. co

But out on the world!—from the flowers

It shuts out the sunshine of truth;
It blights the green leaves in the bowers,

It makes an old age of our youth:
And the flow of our feeling, once in it,

Like a streamlet beginning to freeze,
Though it cannot turn ice in a minute,

Grows harder by sudden degrees.
Time treads o'er the graves of affection;

Sweet honey is turned into gall;
Perhaps you have no recollection

That ever you danced at our Ball.

You once could be pleased with our ballads—

To-day you have critical ears; You once could be charmed with our salads—■

Alas! you've been dining with Peers; You trifled and flirted with many;

You've forgotten the when and the how; There was one you liked better than any—

Perhaps you've forgotten her now. But of those you remember most newly,

Of those who delight or inthrall, None love you a quarter so truly

As some you will find at our Ball. 84

They tell me you've many who flatter,
Because of your wit and your song;

They tell me (and what does it matter?)
You like to be praised by the throng;

They tell me you're shadowed with laurel,
They tell me you 're loved by a Blue;

They tell me you're sadly immoral—

Dear Clarence, that cannot be true! But to me you are still what I found you

Before you grew clever and tall; And you'll think of the spell that once bound you;

And you'll come, Won't you cornel to our Ball? 96

THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES (1803 1849) Dkeam-pedlaky*

If there were dreams to sell,

What would you buy!
Some cost a passing-bell;

Some a light sigh,
That shakes from Life's fresh crown
Only a rose-leaf down.
If there were dreams to sell,
Merry and sad to tell,
And the crier rang the bell,

What would you buy?

A cottage lone and still,

With bowen nigh,
Shadowy, my woes to still

Until I die.
Such pearl from Life's fresh crown
Fain would I shake me down:
Were dreams to have at will,
This would best heal my ill,

This would I buy.

But there were dreams to sell 20

111 didst thou buy;
Life is a dream, they tell,

Waking, to die.
Dreaming a dream to prize,
Is wishing ghosts to rise;
And, if I had the spell
To call the buried well,

Which one would It r

If there are ghosts to raise,

What shall I call, 30 Out of hell's murky haze,

Heaven's blue pall!
Kaise my loved long-lost boy
To lead me to his joy—
There are no ghosts to raise;
Out of cleath lead no ways;

Vain is the call.

Know 'st thou not ghosts to sue,

No love thou hast. Else lie, as I will do, 40

• This poom Is somewhat obscure, but to paraphrase it into perfect lucidity would In* to destroy an clement of. Its clutrui.

And breathe thy last. So out of Life's fresh crown Fall like a rose-leaf down. Thus are the ghosts to woo; Thus are all dreams made true,

Ever to last!

THOMAS HOOD (1798-1845)
The Death-bed

We watched her breathing through the night,

Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life

Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,

So slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers

To eke her living out. *

Our very hopes belied our fears,

Our fears our hopes belied—
We thought her dying when she slept,

And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad,

And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed—she had

Another morn than ours. IS

The Sokg Ok The Shirt

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags.

Plying her needle and thread-
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch

She sang the '' Song of the Shirt''. *

"Work! work! work!

While the eock is crowing aloof! And work—work—work.

Till the stars shine through the roof! It's Oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save,

If this is Christian work! IS

'' Work—work—work,

Till the brain begius to swim; Work—work—work,

Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band,

Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep,

Ami sew them on in a dream! - i

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