Chapter 30

For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade His child he did discover:-- One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover.

"Come back! Come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!--O my daughter!"

'T was vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing: The wafers wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting. T. Campbell.

CCXIV.

FALL OF WARSAW.

O! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandours and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn; Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland--and to man! Warsaw's last champion from her heights surveyed, Wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid-- O Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save! Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains, Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains! By that dread name, we wave the sword on high, And swear for her to live!--with her to die! He said; and on the rampart heights arrayed His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed; Firm paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; Low, murmuring sounds along their banners fly,-- "Revenge, or death!"--the watchword and reply; Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm! In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew;-- O! bloodiest picture in the book of Time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe! Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career. Hope for a season bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked, as Kosciusko fell! 0 righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave, Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save? Where was thine arm, O vengeance! where thy rod, That smote the foes of Sion and of God? Departed spirits of the mighty dead! Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled! Friends of the world! restore your swords to man, Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van! Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, And make her arm puissant as your own! O! once again to Freedom's cause return The patriot Tell,--the Bruce of Bannockburn! Yes, thy proud lords, unpitied land! shall see that man hath yet a soul,--and dare be free! A little while, along thy saddening plains, The starless night of Desolation reigns; Truth shall restore the light by Nature given, And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven! Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurled, Her name, her nature, withered from the world! T. Campbell.

CCXV.

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 stainéd snow; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'T is 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. T. Campbell.

CCXVI.

WAR-SONG OF THE GREEKS, 1822.

Again to the battle Achaians! Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance; Our land,--the first garden of Liberty's tree-- It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free; For the cross of our faith is replanted, The pale, dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefather's graves. Their spirits are hovering o'er us, And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succor advances, Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances Are stretched in our aid?--Be the combat our own! And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone; For we've sworn by our country's assaulters, By the virgins they've dragged from our altars, By our massacred patriots, our children in chains, By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,-- That living we will be victorious, Or that dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not; The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not; Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. Earth may hide--waves engulf--fire consume us, But they shall not to slavery doom us: If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves,-- But we've smote them already with fire on the waves, And new triumphs on land are before us. To the charge!--Heaven's banner is o'er us!

This day--shall ye blush for its story? Or brighten your lives with its glory?-- Our women--O say, shall they shriek in despair, Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair? Accursed may his memory blacken, If a coward there be that would slacken, Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from, and named for, the godlike of earth. Strike home!--and the world shall revere us As heroes descended from heroes.

Old Greece lightens up with emotion Her inlands, her isles of the ocean: Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee sing, And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring. Our hearths shall be kindled with gladness, That were cold, and extinguished in sadness; Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms, Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms,-- When the blood of you Mussulman cravens Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens. T. Campbell.

CCXVII.

THE FLIGHT OF XERXES.

I saw him on the battle-eve When like a king he bore him; Proud hosts in glittering helm and greave, And prouder chiefs, before him. The warrior and the warrior's deeds, The morrow and the morrow's meeds,-- No daunting thought came o'er him; He looked around him, and his eye Defiance flashed to earth and sky.

He looked on ocean,--its broad breast Was covered with his fleet: On earth,--and saw from east to west His bannered millions meet; While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast, Shook with the war-cry of that host, The thunder of their feet! He heard the imperial echoes ring,-- He heard, and felt himself a king.

I saw him next alone;--nor camp Nor chief his steps attended; Nor banner blazed, nor courser's tramp With war-cries proudly blended. He stood alone, whom Fortune high So lately seemed to deify, He, who with Heaven contended, Fled like a fugitive and slave!-- Behind, the foe; before, the wave!

He stood--fleet, army, treasure, gone-- Alone, and in despair! But wave and wind swept ruthless on, For they were monarchs there; And Xerxes, in a single bark, Where late his thousand ships were dark Must all their fury dare. What a revenge, a trophy, this, For thee, immortal Salamis! Miss Jewsbury.

CCXVIII.

OLD IRONSIDES.

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky;-- Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon's roar; The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more.

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee; The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea!

O, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave! Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave! Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms-- The lightning and the gale! O. W. Holmes.

CCXIX.

CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!" he said. Into the valley of Death, Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldier knew Some one had blundered; Theirs not to make reply Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of death Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volleyed and thundered: Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of hell, Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turned in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered: Plunged in the battery smoke, Right through the line they broke Cossack and Russian Reeled from the sabre stroke, Shattered and sundered; Then they rode back, but not-- Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them, Volleyed and thundered: Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well, Came through the jaws of hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade? O, the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made! Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred! A. Tennyson.

CCXX.

ARNOLD WINKELREID.

"Make way for liberty!"--he cried; Made way for liberty, and died!-- It must not be: this day, this hour, Annihilates the oppressor's power! All Switzerland is in the field, She will not fly, she cannot yield,-- She must not fall; her better fate Here gives her an immortal date. Few were the numbers she could boast; But every freeman was a host, And felt as though himself were he, On whose sole arm clung victory.

It did depend on one indeed; Behold him,--Arnold Winkelreid! There sounds not to the trump of fame The echo of a nobler name. Unmarked he stood among the throng, In rumination deep and long, Till you might see, with sudden grace, The very thought come o'er his face; And, by the motion of his form, Anticipate the bursting storm; And, by the uplifting of his brow, Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.

But 't was no sooner thought than done,-- The field was in a moment won! "Make way for liberty!" he cried, Then ran, with arms extended wide, As if his dearest friend to clasp; Ten spears he swept within his grasp: "Make way for liberty!" he cried-- Their keen points met from side to side; He bowed amongst them like a tree, And thus made way for liberty.

Swift to the breach his comrades fly: "Make way for liberty!" they cry, And through the Austrian phalanx dart, As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart; While, instantaneous as his fall, Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all: An earthquake could not overthrow. A city with a surer blow.

Thus Switzerland again was free; Thus Death made way for liberty! J. Montgomery.

CCXXI.

NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD.

New England's dead!--New England's dead! On every hill they lie; On every field of strife made red By bloody victory. Each valley, where the battle poured Its red and awful tide, Beheld the brave New England sword, With slaughter deeply dyed. Their bones are on the northern hill, And on the southern plain, By brook and river, lake and rill, And by the roaring main. The land is holy where they fought, And holy where they fell; For by their blood that land was bought, The land they loved so well. Then glory to that valiant band, The honored saviours of the land! O! few and weak their numbers were,-- A handful of brave men; But to their God they gave their prayer, And rushed to battle then. The God of battles heard their cry, And sent to them the victory. They left the ploughshare in the mould, Their flocks and herds without a fold, The sickle in the unshorn grain, The corn, half-garnered on the plain, And mustered in their simple dress, For wrongs to seek a stern redress; To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe,-- To perish or o'ercome their foe. And where are ye, O fearless men? And where are ye to-day? I call:--the hills reply again That ye have passed away; That on old Bunker's lonely height, In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, The grass grows green, the harvest bright, Above each soldier's mound. The bugle's wild and warlike blast Shall muster them no more; An army now might thunder past, And they not heed its roar. The starry flag 'neath which they fought, In many a bloody day, From their old graves shall rouse them not; For they have passed away. I. M'Lellan.

CCXXII.

NEVER GIVE UP.

Never give up! it is wiser and better Always to hope, than once to despair;-- Fling off the load of doubt's cankering fetters, And break the dark spell of tyrannical care.

Never give up, or the burden may sink you,-- Providence kindly has mingled the cup; And in all trials and troubles bethink you, The watchword of life must be, "Never give up!"

Never give up; there are chances and changes, Helping the hopeful, a hundred to one, And through the chaos, High wisdom arranges Ever success, if you'll only hold on.

Never give up; for the wisest is boldest, Knowing that Providence mingles the cup, And of all maxims, the best, as the oldest, Is the stern watchword of "Never give up!"

Never give up, though the grape-shot may rattle, Or the full thunder-cloud over you burst; Stand like a rock, and the storm or the battle Little shall harm you, though doing their worst.

Never give up; if adversity presses, Providence wisely has mingled the cup; And the best counsel in all your distresses Is the brave watchword of "Never give up!" Anonymous.

CCXXIII.

MARCO BOZZARIS.

At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour, When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power: In dreams, through camp and court he bore The trophies of a conqueror; In dreams his song of triumph heard; Then wore his monarch's signet ring; Then pressed that monarch's throne--a king;-- As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood,-- There had the glad earth drunk their blood, On old Platæa's day; And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquered there, With arm to strike, and soul to dare, As quick, as far as they.

An hour passed on--the Turk awoke; That bright dream was his last; He woke to hear his sentries shriek, "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" He woke--to die midst flame and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet-loud, Bozzaris cheer his band: "Strike--till the last armed foe expires; Strike--for your altars and your fires; Strike--for the green graves of your sires,-- God--and your native land!"

They fought--like brave men, long and well; They piled that ground with Moslem slain; They conquered--but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won: Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose, Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal-chamber, Death! Come to the mother, when she feels, For the first time, her first-born's breath; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke; Come in Consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake shock, the ocean storm; Come when the heart beats high and warm, With banquet-song, and dance, and wine,-- And thou art terrible!--The tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, are thine.