Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 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! 66 'Now, tell us what 'twas all about," "It was the English," Kaspar cried, "My father lived at Blenheim then Yon little stream hard by ; They burned 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 "Great praise Duke Marlborough won, "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing! Said little Wilhelmine. "Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, "And everybody praised the Duke Why, that I cannot tell," said he; THE BRITISH WATER-DRINKERS. It comes o'er the sense like a breeze from the sea, Oh! water, bright water for me, for me! Fill to the brim! Fill, fill to the brim ! For I, like the flowers, drink nought but dew. Fill again to the brim! again to the brim! When o'er the hills, like a gladsome bride, As he freshens his wing in the cold grey cloud. But when evening has quitted her sheltering yew, Drowsily flying and weaving anew Her dusky meshes o'er land and sea How gently, O sleep! fall thy poppies on me; BURNS. He seized his country's lyre, With ardent grasp and strong And made his soul of fire Dissolve itself in song. SOUTHEY. Where Necromancy flings O'er Eastern lands her spell, Sustained on Fable's wings, His spirit loves to dwell. COLERIDGE. Magician, whose dread spell, From Superstition's cell WORDSWORTH. He hung his harp upon Philosophy's pure shrine; And, placed by Nature's throne, Composed each placid line. CAMPBELL. With all that Nature's fire He strikes his graceful lyre BYRON. Black clouds his forehead bound, |