Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear,
Closed her bright eye, and curb’d her high career
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shriek’d- as Kosciusko fell!

The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there :
Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air —
On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow,
His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below.
The storm prevails ! the rampart yields away -
Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay !
Hark! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall,
A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call !
Earth shook ! — red meteors flash'd along the sky!
And conscious nature shudder'd at the cry!

Departed spirits of the MIGHTY DEAD!
Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled !
Friends of the world! restore your swords to man :
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van!
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone,
And make her arm puissant as your own!
Oh ! once again to Freedom's cause return



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 !



Or 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 Aush'd
To anticipate the scene;
And her vån 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. —

Outspoke 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 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 wild and woful sight, Where the fires of fun'ral light Died away. —

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 !

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



Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had lowerd,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,

By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain ; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,

Far, far had I roam’d on a desolate track : 'Twas autumn- and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft,

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young: I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

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