Three days we've fled together, For, should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
'His horseman hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?'
Outspoke the hardy Highland wight,
'I'll go, my chief! I'm ready; It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady.
'And, by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry; So, though the waves are raging white
I'll row you o'er the ferry.'
By this the storm grew loud
But still, as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armèd menTheir trampling sounded nearer.
'O haste thee, haste!' the lady cries,
Though tempests round gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father.'
The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.
And still they rode amidst the
FROMMEN OF ENGLAND'
MEN of England! who inherit
Rights that cost your sires their blood!
Men whose undegenerate spirit
Has been proved on land and flood
By the foes ye've fought, uncounted,
By the glorious deeds ye've done.
Trophies captured-breaches mounted,
Navies conquered-kingdoms won!
Yet, remember, England gathers
Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,
If the freedom of your fathers
Glow not in your hearts the same.
What are monuments of bravery,
Where no public virtues bloom?
What avail in lands of slavery
Trophied temples, arch, and tomb?
162. SONG OF HYBRIAS THE CRETAN
My wealth's a burly spear and brand,
And a right good shield of hides untanned
Which on my arm I buckle :
With these I plough, I reap, I Sow,
With these I make the sweet vintage flow,
And all around me truckle.
But your wights that take no pride to wield
A massy spear and well-made shield,
Nor joy to draw the sword
Oh, I bring those heartless, hapless drones,
Down in a trice on their marrow-bones
To call me King and Lord.
OF Nelson and the North
Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's
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 captain
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 blessed 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 looked smiling
bright
O'er a wide and woful sight,
Where the fires of funeral 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 heaven o'er
their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
164. 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 arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed
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 that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainèd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
166. YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND
YE Mariners of England
That guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved, a thousand
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!
For the deck it was their field of
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