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Enough for me; with joy I see “ The different doom our fates assign. "Be thine despair and sceptred care : "To triumph, and to die are mine!"

He spoke; and headlong, from the mountain's height, Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts, and armèd hands
Encounter'd in the battle-cloud.

And never shall the land forget

How gush'd the life-blood of her brave;
Gush'd warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now, all is calm, and fresh, and still,
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,

And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by

GRAY.

The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain;

Men start not at the battle-cry;

O be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife,
For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day, and weary year;
A wild and many-weapon'd throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet, nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot;

The timid good may stand aloof,

The same may frown; yet faint thou not.

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The hissing, stinging, bolt of scorn;
For with thy side, shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crush'd to earth, shall rise again;
The eternal years of God are hers;
But error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who help'd thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is peal'd
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

BRYANT.

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.
But now the trumpet, terrible from far,
In shriller clangours animates the war;
Confed'rate drums in fuller concert beat,
And echoing hills the loud alarm repeat:
Gallia's proud standards to Bavaria's join'd,
Unfurl their gilded lilies in the wind;
The daring prince, his blasted hopes renews,
And while the thick embattled host he views,
Stretched out in deep array, and dreadful length,
His heart dilates, and glories in his strength.

The fatal day its mighty course began,
That the grieved world had long desired in vain ;
States that their new captivity bemoan'd,
Armies of martyrs that in exile groan'd,
Sighs from the depth of gloomy dungeons heard.
And prayers in bitterness of soul preferr'd,
Europe's loud cries that Providence assail'd,
And Anna's ardent vows at length prevail'd;
The day was come when Heaven design'd to show
His care and conduct of the world below.

Behold, in awful march and dread array,
The long-extended squadrons shape their way!
Death in approaching, terrible, imparts
An anxious horror to the bravest hearts;
Yet do their beating breasts demand the strife,
And thirst of glory quells the love of life.
No vulgar fears can British minds control;
Heat of revenge, and noble pride of soul,
O'erlook the foe, advantaged by his post,
Lessen his numbers, and contract his host;
Though fens and floods possess'd the middle space,
That, unprovoked, they would have fear'd to pass;
Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia's bands,
When her proud foe ranged on their borders stands.

But, O my muse, what numbers wilt thou find
To sing the furious troops in battle join'd!
Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound,
The victor's shouts and dying groans confound;
The dreadful burst of cannon rends the skies,
And all the thunders of the battle rise.

'Twas then great Marlbro's mighty soul was proved,
That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved,
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair,
Examined all the dreadful scenes of war;

In peaceful thought the field of death survey'd,
To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid,
Inspired repulsed battalions to engage,
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage.
So when an angel, by divine command,
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land,
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia pass'd,
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast,
And, pleased th' Almighty's orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.

ADDISON.

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 rush'd 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 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.

CAMPBELL.

THE BATTLE OF MINDEN.

Now stood Eliza on the wood-crowned height,
O'er Minden's plain, spectatress of the fight;
Sought with bold eye, amid the bloody strife,
Her dearer self, the partner of her life:

From hill to hill the rushing host pursued,
And view'd his banner, or believed she viewed.
Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread,
Fast by his hand one lisping boy she led ;
And one fair girl, amid the loud alarm,
Slept on her 'kerchief, cradled by her arm:

While round her brows bright beams of honour dart,
And love's warm eddies circle round her heart.—
Near, and more near, the intrepid beauty pressed,
Saw through the driving smoke, his dancing crest:
Heard the exulting shout, "They run, they run !"
"Great God!" she cried, "he's safe! the battle's won!"-
A ball now hisses through the airy tides,

Some Fury winged it, and some Demon guides !—
Parts the fine locks, her graceful head that deck,
Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck;
The red stream issuing from her azure veins,
Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains.
"Ah me!" she cried, and sinking on the ground,
Kissed her dear babes, regardless of the wound;
Oh, cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn!

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Wait, gushing life! oh, wait my love's return."
Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far,
The angel Pity shuns the walks of war!

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Oh, spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age, On me-on me," she cried, "exhaust your rage!" Then with weak arms, her weeping babes carest, And sighing, hid them in her blood-stained vest. From tent to tent, th' impatient warrior flies, Fear in his heart, and frenzy in his eyes!

Eliza's name along the camp he calls,

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Eliza," echoes through the canvass walls;

Quick through the murmuring gloom his footsteps tread,
O'er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead.
Vault o'er the plain, and in the tangled wood,
Lo, dead Eliza, weltering in her blood.—
Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds,
With open arms, and sparkling eyes he bounds-
"Speak low," he cries, and gives his little hand,
"Eliza sleeps upon the dew-cold sand;"

Poor weeping babe, with bloody fingers prest,
And tried with pouting lips her milkless breast.

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