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 woeful 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,

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;

And yet amidst that joy and uproar,

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The Battle of Blenheim.
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,

By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore !

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!

CAMPBELL.

*

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

T was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door

Was sitting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round,

Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;

He came to ask what he had found,

That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Captain Riou, justly entitled the gallant and the good, by Lord Nelson, when he wrote home his despatches.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

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 ploughshare 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;
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they killed each other for."

"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they killed each other for,
I could not well make out.
But everybody said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.

My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by;

They burned his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

Hohenlinden.

With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide,

And many a childing mother then,

And new-born baby died.

But things like that, you know, must be

At every famous victory.

They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun.

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
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 everybody praised the Duke

Who this great fight did won." "But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin.

"Why, that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory."

SOUTHEY.

HOHENLINDEN.

N Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

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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.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulph'rous 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.