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In vain they hid their heads in walls; we rush'd on stout Thouar,
What cared we for its shot or shell, for battlement or bar?
We burst its gates; then, like the wind, we rush'd on Fontenaye
We saw its flag at morning's light, 'twas ours by setting day.
We crush'd, like ripen'd grapes, Montreuil, we tore down old
We charged them with our naked breasts, and took them with a
cheer. We'll hunt the robbers through the land, from Seine to sparkling
Rhone. Now, “Here's a health to all we love. Our King shall have his own.”
Memoirs of a Statesman.
ON THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND.
Oh! sacred Truth, thy triumph ceased awhile,
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile,
When leagued Oppression pour'd to northern wars
Her whisker'd pandoors and her fierce hussars;
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn;
Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet-horn :
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van;
Presaging wrath to Poland--and to man!
Warsaw's last champion from her height survey'd
Wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid, -
“Oh! Heav'n,” he cried,"my bleeding country save!
Is there no hand on high'to shield the brave ?
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains,
Risé, fellow-men! our country yet remains ?
By that dread name we wave the sword on high!
And swear for her to live !-with her to die!"
He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd
His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd;
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm;
Low, murm’ring sounds along their banners fly,
“Revenge or death”—the watchword and reply;
Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin toll’d their last alarm!
In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few!
From ránk to rank your volley'd thunder flew :-
Ob! bloodiest picture in the book of time,
Poor Poland fell, unwept, without a crime;
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!
Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear,
Closed her bright age, and curb'd her high career:
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And freedom shriek'-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 below;
The storm prevails—the rampart yields a way-
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 poor Poland's tears of blood atone,
And make her arm puissant as your own!
Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return
The patriot TELL-the BRUCE of BANNOCKBURN.
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but bim had fled,
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud though childlike form!
The flames roll’d on-he would not go
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
* In 1794. + At the battle of the Nile, 1798, the French admiral, in the L'Orient, ordered his son Casabianca (a lad about 13 years of age) not to quit his post until he told him. In the course of the action, the admiral was killed, the ship caught fire, and was blown up. The boy, unconscious that his father was dead, remained at his post, and permitted himself to be launched into eternity, rather than disobey his father's orders.
He call'd aloud :-“Say, father! say
If yet my task is done?”
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
“ Speak, father!” once again he cried,
“If I'may yet be gone!
And”—but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And look'd from that lone post of death
In still yet brave despair!
And shouted but once more aloud,
“My father, must I stay ?”
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing, fires made way;
They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners iu the sky.
Then came a burst of thunder sound
The boy-oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds, that far around
With fragments strewed the sea,
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part-
But the noblest thing which perished there
Was that young faithful heart !-HEMANS.
THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. *
Of 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 flush'd
To anticipate the scene;
And her van 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!
Out spoke 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,
Then 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 woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
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,
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?
THE DEATH OF NELSON. “ He fell with his face upon the deck. Hardy turned round as some men were raising him. They have done for me at last, Hardy,' said he. Soon after he had been carried to the cock-pit, his wound was discovered to be mortal; he felt this himself, and insisted that the surgeon should leave him, to attend those whom he might yet save. He was in great pain, and intensely anxious to know how the battle went. Will no one bring Hardy to me?' he asked : "he must be killed! he is surely dead! At length Hardy came, and the two friends shook hands in silence. After a pause, the dying man faintly uttered, 'Well, Hardy, how goes the day?'
Very well; ten ships have already struck. Finding that all was well, and that no British ship had yielded, he turned to speak of himself—'I am a dead man, Hardy! I am going fast. "It will soon be all over with me!' Hardy hoped that there was yet a chance of recovery: O no! it is impossible. I feel something rising in my breast that tells me so.' Captain Hardy, having been again on deck, returned at the end of an hour, to his dying friend. He could not tell, in the confusion, the exact number of allies that had surrendered, but there were at least fifteen; for the other ships had followed their admiral's into action, breaking the enemy's line and engaging closely to leeward, in the same gallant style as the Victory and Sovereign. Nelson answered, that is well, but I bargained for twenty.' And his wish was prophetic; he had not miscalculated the superiority of his followers; twenty actually surrendered. Having ordered the fleet to anchor, he again spoke of himself. 'Don't throw me overtoard. Kiss me, Hardy! Hardy knelt down, and obeyed in silence Now I am satisfied; I thank God I have done my duty.' Hardy kissed him again, received his blessing, and then took leave of him for ever."
“The most triumphant death is that of the martyr; the most awful, that of the martyred patriot; the most splendid, that of the hero in the hour of victory; and if the chariot and the horses of