Part 13

Of 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! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back;-- Their shots along the deep slowly boom:-- Then ceased--and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail, Or in conflagration pale Light the gloom.

Out spoke 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 blest 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 wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away.

Now joy, old England, raise! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep Full many a fathom deep By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!

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 heaven o'er their grave! While the billow mournful rolls And the mermaid's song condoles Singing glory to the souls Of the brave!

T. CAMPBELL.

208. ODE TO DUTY

Stern Daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove; Thou who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe; From vain temptations dost set free, And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth: Glad hearts! without reproach or blot, Who do thy work, and know it not: Oh! if through confidence misplaced They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.

Serene will be our days and bright And happy will our nature be When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold Ev'n now who, not unwisely bold, Live in the spirit of this creed; Yet find that other strength, according to their need.

I, loving freedom, and untried; No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide, Too blindly have reposed my trust: And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd The task, in smoother walks to stray; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy controul, But in the quietness of thought: Me this uncharter'd freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance desires; My hopes no more must change their name; I long for a repose which ever is the same.

Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace; Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face: Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, And fragrance in thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong; And the most ancient Heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful Power! I call thee: I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour; O let my weakness have an end! Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice; The confidence of reason give; And in the light of Truth thy bondman let me live.

W. WORDSWORTH.

209. ON THE CASTLE OF CHILLON.

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art-- For there thy habitation is the heart-- The heart which love of Thee alone can bind;

And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd, To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.

Chillon! thy prison is a holy place And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod Until his very steps have left a trace

Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God.

LORD BYRON.

210. ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND.

1802.

Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea, One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice: In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, They were thy chosen music, Liberty!

There came a tyrant, and with holy glee Thou fought'st against him,--but hast vainly striven: Thou from thy Alpine holds at length are driven Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.

--Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft; Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left-- For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be

That Mountain floods should thunder as before, And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee!

W. WORDSWORTH.

211. ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC.

Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee And was the safeguard of the West; the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest child of liberty.

She was a maiden city, bright and free; No guile seduced, no force could violate; And when she took unto herself a mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea.

And what if she had seen those glories fade, Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,-- Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid

When her long life hath reach'd its final day: Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great has pass'd away.

W. WORDSWORTH.

212. LONDON, MDCCCII.

O Friend! I know not which way I must look For comfort, being, as I am, opprest To think that now our life is only drest For show; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,

Or groom!--We must run glittering like a brook In the open sunshine, or we are unblest; The wealthiest man among us is the best: No grandeur now in Nature or in book

Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore: Plain living and high thinking are no more:

The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.

W. WORDSWORTH.

213. THE SAME.

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,

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.

W. WORDSWORTH.

214.

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 of 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!

W. WORDSWORTH.

215. 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 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.

216. 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 then 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 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 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--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:-- "Why that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory."

R. SOUTHEY.

217. 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; In 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.

T. MOORE.

218. 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.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him: But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him-- But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

C. WOLFE.

219. SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN.

In the sweet shire of Cardigan, Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall, An old man dwells, a little man, I've heard he once was tall. Full five-and-thirty years he lived A running huntsman merry; And still the centre of his cheek Is red as a ripe cherry.

No man like him the horn could sound, And hill and valley rang with glee, When Echo bandied round and round The halloo of Simon Lee. In those proud days he little cared For husbandry or tillage; To blither tasks did Simon rouse The sleepers of the village.

He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And often, ere the chase was done, He reel'd and was stone-blind. And still there's something in the world At which his heart rejoices; For when the chiming hounds are out, He dearly loves their voices.

But O the heavy change!--bereft Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see Old Simon to the world is left In liveried poverty: His master's dead, and no one now Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; He is the sole survivor.

And he is lean and he is sick, His body dwindled and awry Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; His legs are thin and dry. He has no son, he has no child; His wife, an aged woman, Lives with him, near the waterfall, Upon the village common.

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, Not twenty paces from the door, A scrap of land they have, but they Are poorest of the poor. This scrap of land he from the heath Enclosed when he was stronger; But what avails the land to them Which he can till no longer?

Oft, working by her husband's side, Ruth does what Simon cannot do; For she, with scanty cause for pride, Is stouter of the two. And, though you with your utmost skill From labour could not wean them, 'Tis little, very little, all That they can do between them.

Few months of life has he in store As he to you will tell, For still, the more he works, the more Do his weak ankles swell. My gentle reader, I perceive How patiently you've waited, And now I fear that you expect Some tale will be related.

O reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle reader! you would find A tale in everything. What more I have to say is short, And you must kindly take it; It is no tale; but, should you think, Perhaps a tale you'll make it.

One summer-day I chanced to see This old man doing all he could To unearth the root of an old tree, A stump of rotten wood. The mattock totter'd in his hand So vain was his endeavour That at the root of the old tree He might have work'd for ever.

"You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee, Give me your tool," to him I said; And at the word right gladly he Received my proffer'd aid. I struck, and with a single blow The tangled root I sever'd, At which the poor old man so long And vainly had endeavour'd.

The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seem'd to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. --I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Has oftener left me mourning.

W. WORDSWORTH.

220. THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.

I have had playmates, I have had companions In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a Love once, fairest among women: Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her-- All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces,

How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

C. LAMB.

221. THE JOURNEY ONWARDS.

As slow our ship her foamy track Against the wind was cleaving, Her trembling pennant still look'd back To that dear isle 'twas leaving. So loth we part from all we love, From all the links that bind us; So turn our hearts, as on we rove, To those we've left behind us!

When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years We talk with joyous seeming-- With smiles that might as well be tears, So faint, so sad their beaming; While memory brings us back again Each early tie that twined us, Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then To those we've left behind us!

And when in other climes, we meet Some isle or vale enchanting, Where all looks flowery wild and sweet, And nought but love is wanting; We think how great had been our bliss If Heaven had but assign'd us To live and die in scenes like this, With some we've left behind us!

As travellers oft look back at eve When eastward darkly going, To gaze upon that light they leave Still faint behind them glowing,-- So, when the close of pleasure's day To gloom hath near consign'd us, We turn to catch our fading ray Of joy that's left behind us.

T. MOORE.

222. YOUTH AND AGE.

There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay; 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess: The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.

O could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene,-- As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me!

LORD BYRON.

223. A LESSON.

There is a flower, the Lesser Celandine, That shrinks like many more from cold and rain, And the first moment that the sun may shine, Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!

When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest, Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.

But lately, one rough day, this flower I past, And recognised it, though an alter'd form, Now standing forth an offering to the blast, And buffeted at will by rain and storm.

I stopp'd and said with inly-mutter'd voice, "It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold; This neither is its courage nor its choice, But its necessity in being old.

"The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; It cannot help itself in its decay; Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue." And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.

To be a prodigal's favourite--then, worse truth, A miser's pensioner--behold our lot! O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth Age might but take the things Youth needed not!

W. WORDSWORTH.

224. PAST AND PRESENT.

I remember, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon Nor brought too long a day; But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away.