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THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

Ir was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done;
And he before his cottage door
Was stting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
That 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 them 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 the 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 killed each other for.
It was the English, Kaspar cried,
That put the French to rout;
But what they killed each other for,
I could not well make out.
But everybody said, quoth he,
That 'twas a famous victory.

My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

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 new-born infant, 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 everybody praised the Duke
Who such a 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.

ALL Nature is but Art unknown to thee;
All Chance, Direction which thou can'st not see;
All Discord, Harmony not understood;

All partial Evil, universal Good;

And spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite,

One truth is clear, whatever is, is right.

POPE.

137

THE GLOVE.

KING FRANCIS was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;
The nobles filled the benches, and the ladies in their pride,
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Loye, with one for whom he
sighed.

And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
The lions and the tigers roared with horrid laughing jaws;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with
their paws :

With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another,
Till all the pit with sand and main was in a thund'rous smother.
The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air:
Saith Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than
there."

De Loye's love overheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same;

She thought,-The count, my love, is brave as brave can be ; He surely would do wond'rous things to show his love of me: King, ladies, lovers, all look on, the occasion is divine,

I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.

She dropped the glove to prove his love; she looked at him and smiled;

He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild.

The leap was quick, return was quick; he has regained his

place;

Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. "Well done," said Francis, "rightly done," and he rose from where he sat ;

"Not love," quoth he, "but vanity, set love a task like that." LEIGH HUNT, (AFTER SCHILLER).

NO CONCEALMENT.

THINK'ST thou to be concealed, thou little stream!
That through the lowly vale dost wind thy way,

Loving beneath the darkest arch to glide

Of woven branches, blent with hillocks gray?

NO CONCEALMENT.

The mist doth track thee, and reveal thy course
Unto the dawn, and a bright line of green
Tingeth thy marge, and the white flocks that haste
At summer-noon to drink thy crystal sheen,
Make plain thy wanderings to the eye of day;
And then thy smiling answer to the moon,
Whose beams so freely on thy bosom sleep,

Unfold thy secret, even to night's dull noon.
How couldst thou hope, in such a world as this,
To shroud thy gentle path of beauty and of bliss?

Think'st thou to be concealed, thou little seed!
That in the bosom of the earth art cast,

And there, like cradled infant, sleep'st awhile,
Unmoved by trampling storm, or thunder blast?
Thou bidest thy time, for herald spring shall come
And wake thee, all unwilling as thou art,
Unhood thine eyes, unfold thy clasping sheath,
And stir the languid pulses of thy heart.
The loving rains shall woo thee, and the dews
Weep o'er thy bed, till, ere thou art aware,
Forth steals the tender leaf, the wiry stem,

The trembling bud, the flower that scents the air;
And soon, to all, thy ripened fruitage tells
The evil or the good that in thy nature dwells.

Think'st thou to be concealed, thou little thought!
That in the curtained chamber of the soul
Dost wrap thyself so close, and dream to do

A hidden work? Look to the hues that roll
O'er the changed brow, the moving lip behold,
Linking thee unto sound, the feet that run
Upon thine errands, and the deeds that stamp
Thy likeness plain before the noonday sun.
Look to the pen that writes thy history down
In those tremendous books that ne'er unclose
Until the Day of Doom; and blush to see

How vain thy trust in darkness to repose,
Where all things tend to judgment. So beware,

Oh, erring human heart, what thoughts thou lodgest there.
MRS. SIGOURNEY, 1791-1865,

139

THE COMMON LOT.

ONCE, in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man: and who was he?
Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,
That man resembled thee.

Unknown the region of his birth,

The land in which he died unknown:
His name has perished from the earth,
This truth survives alone:

That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
Alternate triumphed in his breast;
His bliss and woe- a smile, a tear!
Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits' rise and fall;
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.

He suffered - but his pangs are o'er;
Enjoyed-but his delights are fled;
Had friends-his friends are now no more;
And foes-his foes are dead.

He loved-but whom he loved the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb:
O she was fair! but nought could save
Her beauty from the tomb.

He saw whatever thou hast seen;
Encountered all that troubles thee:
whatever thou hast been;

He was

He is what thou shalt be.

The rolling seasons, day and night,

Sun, moon, and stars, and earth and main, Erewhile his portion, life and light

To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye That once their shades and glory threw,

Have left in yonder silent sky

No vestige where they flew.

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