Page images

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was

young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn

reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I

swore, From my home and my weeping friends never

to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of


“Stay, stay with us,-rest, thou art weary and

worn;" And fain was their war-broken soldier to

stay;—. But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.



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 tempests 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 tempests 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 tempests blow :
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

'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.


On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' 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.

* A battle fought in Germany on the 3d December, 1800.

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.

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.


« PreviousContinue »