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VI.

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 wide and woful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

VII.

Now joy, Old England, raise !
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,

While 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 !

VIII.

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!

*Captain Riou, justly entitled the gallant and the good by Lord Nelson when he wrote home his despatches.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND:

A NAVAL ODE.

I.

YE Mariners of England!

That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

11.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave!

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave;

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,

Your manly hearts shall glow,

As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

III.

Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak,

She quells the floods below,—

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy winds do blow ;

When the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

IV.

The meteor-flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

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 stained 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.

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