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CXXXVIII. THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.—Southey. It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done
Was sitting in the sun.
Roll something large and round,
In playing there had found;
Who stood expectant by;
And with a natural sigh, “'Tis some poor fellow's skull,” said he, “ Who fell in the great victory." “I find them in the garden,
For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough,
The plough-share turns them out ! For many thousand men,” said he, “ Were slain in that great victory." “ Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin, he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes. $6 Now tell us all about the war, And what they killed each other for." " It was the English,” Kaspar cried,
ss Who put the French to rout;
But what they killed each other for,
I could not well make out.
Yon little stream hard by ;
And he was forced to fly :
Was wasted far and wide,
And new born baby died;
After the field was won;
Lay rotting in the sun;
And our good Prince Eugene.” Why 'twas a very wicked thing !"
Said little Wilhelmine. “Nay-nay-my little girl," quoth he, “ It was a famous victory.” “And every body praised the Duke
Who this great victory did win." “But what good came of it at last?”
Quoth little Peterkin.
Why that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory."
Where burning Sappho loved and sung, -
Where Delos rose, and Phæbus sprung!
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Their place of birth alone is mute
And Marathon looks on the sea;
I dream'd that Greece might still be free;
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis,
And men in nations ;-all were his !
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic bosom beats no more !
Though link'd among a fettered race,
Even as I sing suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here!
Must we but blush ?-Our Father's bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead !
Ah! no-the voices of the dead
“ Let one living head, But one arise,-we come, we come !" 'Tis but the living who are dumb. In vain-in vain : strike other chords; Fill high the
with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish bordes,
And shed the blood of Scio's vine !
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
The nobler and the manlier one ? You have the letters Cadmus gaveThink
he meant them for a slave? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these ! It made Anacreon's song divine :
He served but served Polycrates-
Was freedom's best and bravest friend;
Another despot of the kind!
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, The Heracleidan blood might own. Trust not for freedom to the Franks
They have a king who buys and sells. In native swords, and native ranks,
The only hope of courage dwells; But Turkish force and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !
Our virgins dance beneath the shadeI see their glorious black eyes shine :
But gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must nourish slaves. Place me on Sunium's marble steep
Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die : A land of slaves shall ne'er be mineDash down your cup of Samian wine !
ODE TO MADNESS.-Penrose.
Sound the clarion, sweep the string,
All thy answers, Echo, bring,
'Tis madness, self inspires.