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But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.
"O haste thee, haste !” the lady cries,
Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.”
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,
When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gather'd o'er her.
And still they row'd amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing;
Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing.–
For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover ;-
One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,
And one was round her lover.
“Come back ! come back !” he cried in grief,
“ Across this stormy water; And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
“My daughter !-Oh, my daughter !”
'Twas vain :—the loud waves lash'd the shore,
Return or aid preventing :
The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.
VI.-THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.
Nelson and the North,
Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
By each gun the lighted brand,
In a bold determined hand,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on.-
Like leviathans afloat,
Lay their bulwarks on the brine ;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line :
It was ten of April morn by the chime:
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.-
But the might of England flush'd
To anticipate the scene ;
And her van the fleeter rush'd
O'er the deadly space between.
“Hearts of oak !” our captains cried; when each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.
Again! again ! again!
And the liavoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back ;-
Their shots along the deep slowly boom :-
Then ceased—and all is wail,
As they strike the shatter'd sail ;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.
Out spoke the victor then,
As he hail'd them o'er the wave :
“ Ye are brothers ! ye are men !
And we conquer but to save ;-
So peace instead of death let us bring;
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our King.”
Then Denmark bless'd our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,
As death withdrew his shades from the day.
While the sun look'd smiling bright
O'er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
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,
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 !
LL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
I saw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of Time !
I saw the last of human mould
That shall creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime !
The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man !
Some had expired in fight,—the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;
In plague and famine some !
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb !
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm pass'd by,
Saying, “We are twins in death, proud Sun !
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
'Tis Mercy bids thee go; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.
“What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill ;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will ?-
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day:
For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Heal'd not a passion or a pang
Entail'd on human hearts.