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Lightly they 'll talk of the spirit that 's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he ‘ü reck, if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him!
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring And we heard the distant and random gun,
That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame, fresh and gory! We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
But we left him -alone with his glory!
9 THE BATTLE OF HOIIENLINDEN, 1800. — Thomas Campbell
On Linden when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
Aid 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 warrior drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steeds to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of Heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.
And redder yet those fires shall glow
On Linden's hills of blood-stained snow,
And darker yet shall be the flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.
T is morn ; but scarce yon lurid sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
While furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy,
The combat decpens. On, ye brave
Who rush to głory, or the grave!
Wav., Munich, all thy banners wave!
And charge with all thy chivalry'
Ah! 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
61 SONG OF THE GREEKS 1822. — Thomas Campbell.
Again to the battle, Achaians !
Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance ;
Our land, - the first garden of Liberty's tree,
It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free
For the cross of our faith is replanted,
The pale dying crescent is daunted,
And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves
May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves
Their spirits are hovering o'er us,
And the sword shall to glory restore us.
Ah! what though no succor advances,
Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances
Are stretched in our aid ? — Be the combat our own
And we 'li perish or conquer more proudly alone ;
For w3 've sworn by our country's assaulters,
Eyiko virgins they've dragged from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,
That, living, we will be victorious,
Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious.
A breath of submission we breathe not:
The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
has whetted its blade.
Earth may hide, waves engulf, fire consume us;
But they shall not to slavery doom us :
If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves :
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us;
To the charge! — Heaven's banner is o'er us.
shall ye blush for its story?
Or brighten your lives with its glory?
Our women ---0, say, shall they shriek in despair,
Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair ! .
Accursed may his memory blacken,
If a coward there be that would slacken Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from, and named for, the god-like of earth
Strike home! — and the world shall revere as
As heroes descended from heroes.
Old Greece lightens up with emotion!
Her inlands, her isles of the ocean,
Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee ring,
And the Nine shall new hallow their Ilelicon's spring.
Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,
That were cold, and extinguished in sadness
Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving aims.
Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms, –
When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens
Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens !
52. FALL OF WARSAW, 1794. - Thomas Campbell..
O! SACRED Truth! thy triumph ceased a while,
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile,
When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars
Her whiskered pandours and her fierce hussars,
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn :
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,
Presaging wrath to Poland
and to man!
Warsaw's last champion from her heights surveyed
Wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid -
O Heaven ! he cried, my bleeding country save!
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave ?
Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains,
Rise, 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 arrayed
His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed;
Firm paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ;
Low, murmuring sounds along their banners fly, -
“Revenge, or death!” the watchword and reply;
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm !
In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few!
From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew ;-
0! bloodiest picture in the book of Time,
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime;
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!
Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear,
Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career
Hope for a scasen, bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shrieked, as Kosciusko fell !
O righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave,
Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save ?
Where was thine arm, O vengeance ! where thy rod,
That smote the focs of Sion and of God ?
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!
0! once again to Freedom's cause return
The patriot Tell, — the Bruce of Bannockburn !
Yes, thy proud lords, unpitied land! shall see
That man hath yet a soul, and dare be free!
A little while, along thy saddening plains,
The starless night of Desolation reigns ;
Truth shall- restore the light by Nature given,
And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven !
Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurled,
Her name, her nature, withered from the world!
53 MARCO BOZZARIS. — Fitz-Greene Halleck. Jarco Bozzaris, the Epaminondas of modern Greece, fell in a night attark upon the Turkist camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platzea, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were: -"To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain."
Ar midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent.
Should tremble at his power:
In dreams through camp and court he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;
In dreams his song of triumph heard ;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring, -
Then pressed that monarch's throne, - a king
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing
As Eden's garden bird.
An hour passed on, — the Turk awoke.
That bright dream was his last;
He woke, to hear his sentries shriek,
“ To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek '
He woke, to die midst flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain cloud,
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band :
“Strike — till the last armed foe expires !
Strike - for
fires ! Strike -— for the green graves of your siros !
God, and your native land!” They fought, like brave men, long and well;
They piled the ground with Moslem slain; They conquered; but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His sinile, when rang their proud hurrah,
And the red field was won;
Then saw in death his eyelids close,
Calmly, as to a night's repose,
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's when she feels
For the first time her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke; Come in Consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; Come when the heart beats high and warm,
With banquet song, and dance, and wine..
And thou art terrible : the tear,
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear.
Of agony, are thine.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Bozzaris! with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee: there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime.
We tell thy doom without a sigh ; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die!