*

He woke to die, 'midst flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast
Like forest-pines before the blast,
Or 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.

*

*

Bozzaris! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime;
She wore no funeral weeds for thee,

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from Death's lifeless tree In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,

The heartless luxury of the tomb;

But she remembers thee as one
Long loved, and for a season gone.
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,

Her marble wrought, her music breathed;
For thee she rings the birthday bells;
Of thee her babe's first lisping tells;
For thine her evening-prayer is said
At palace couch and cottage bed.
Her soldier, closing with the foe,
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;
His plighted maiden when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears.
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek

Ex. 131.

Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys;
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's;
One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die!

The Battle of 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 rushed the steed to battle driven !
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery!

But redder yet those fires shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainèd snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly!

"Tis morn-but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-cloud 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 !

Halleck.

Campbell.

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead;
Yet beautiful and bright he stood
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,

A proud though child-like form!

The flames rolled on-he would not go
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud-Say, father, say,
If yet my task is done!'

He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

'Speak, father!' once again he cried,
If I may yet be gone!
And'-but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair;

And looked from that lone post of death

In still, yet brave despair!

He shouted yet once more aloud,

'My father! must I stay?'

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way:

They wrapped the ship in splendour wild,

They caught the flag on high,

And streamed above the gallant child,

Like banners in the sky.

Then came a burst of thunder sound-
The boy-oh! where was he?

Ask of the winds, that far around
With fragments strewed the sea,
With mast and helm and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part-

But the noblest thing that perished there,
Was that young faithful heart.

Mrs. Hemans.

Ex. 133.

The Burial of Sir John Moore.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse 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 sod with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And our lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin confined his breast,

Not in sheet nor 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 of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lowly pillow,

[ head,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his
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
Of the enemy 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.

Ex. 134.

The Battle of the Baltic.

Of Nelson and the North

Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's crown,

Wolfe.

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 flushed
To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rushed

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 shattered sail;

Or, in conflagration pale,

Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hailed 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 ;-

N