Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men: O! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea, Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free; So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
When I have borne in memory what has tamed Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold,—some fears unnamed I had, my Country!-am I to be blamed? Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art, Verily, in the bottom of my heart
Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
For dearly must we prize thee; we who find In thee a bulwark for the cause of men ; And I by my affection was beguiled: What wonder if a Poet now and then, Among the many movements of his mind, Felt for thee as a lover or a child!
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 array'd Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neigh'd To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven; Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven; And louder than the bolts of Heaven Far flash'd the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stainéd snow; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn; but scarce yon 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, every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
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 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 newborn baby died :
But things like that, you know, must be
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.
'Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won
And our good Prince Eugene ;
'Why 'twas a very wicked thing! Said little Wilhelmine;
nay.. my little girl,' quoth he,
'It was a famous victory.
'And every body praised the Duke Who this great fight did win.' 'But what good came of it at last?' Quoth little Peterkin :-
PRO PATRIA MORI
When he who adores thee has left but the name Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
O! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame Of a life that for thee was resign'd!
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, Thy tears shall efface their decree;
For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, I have been but too faithful to thee.
With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; Every thought of my reason was thine :
my last humble prayer to the Spirit above Thy name shall be mingled with mine!
O! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live The days of thy glory to see;
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
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