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Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear,
Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there:
Departed spirits of the Mighty Dead!
On Linden, when the sun was low,
But Linden saw another sight,
By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Then shook the hills with thunder riven!
But redder yet that light shall glow
Tis morn — but scarce yon level sun
The combat deepens — On, ye brave,
Few, few shall part where many meet!
THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.
Ok 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!
Outspoke 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 wild and woful sight,
Where the fires of fun'ral light
Died away. —
Now joy, old England, raise!
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 heav'n o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
'Twas autumn — and sunshine arose on the way
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,