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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 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 dur
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.

234

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. A NAVAL ODE

Ye Mariners of England

That guard our native scas,

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 do1 blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

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 fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,

As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain waves,

Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her 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.

The earl'er editions have while the stormy tempests blow' throughout

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.

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

Of 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 determin'd 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 flushed
To anticipate the scene,

And her van the fleeter rushed

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 havoc 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 shattered sail,

Or in conflagration pale

Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hailed 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 blest 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 looked smiling bright

O'er a wide and woeful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

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 !

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!

THE ONEYDA'S DEATH-SONG.

[From Gertrude of Wyoming, Part III.]

Hushed were his Gertrude's lips, but still their bland
And beautiful expression seemed to melt

With love that could not die; and still his hand

She presses to the heart no more that felt.

Ah heart! where once each fond affection dwelt,
And features yet that spoke a soul more fair.

Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt,

Of them that stood encircling his despair,

He heard some friendly words ;-but knew not what they were

For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives
A faithful band. With solemn rites between,
'Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives,
And in their deaths had not divided been.
Touch'd by the music, and the melting scene,
Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd :—
Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen
To veil their eyes, as pass'd each much-loved shroud-
While woman's softer soul in woe dissolved aloud.

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