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Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;

While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips "The foe! They come! they come!"

And Ardennes waves above them

her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as

they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er


Over the unreturning brave, —alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass

Which now beneath them, but

above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery


Of living valor, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay,

The midnight brought the signal

sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms,

— the day Battle's magnificently-stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it,

which when rent The earth is covered thick with

other clay, Which her own clay shall cover,

heaped and pent, Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in

one red burial blent!


{Hit last terses. ]

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it has ceased to move: Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love:

My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone;

The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys

Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze — A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,

The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain.

But'tis not thus— and 'tis not here
Such thoughts should shake my
soul, nor now.
Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner and the field,

Glory and Greece, around me see! The Spartan, borne upon his shield, Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece — she is awake!) Awake, my spirit! Think through


Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood! — unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be.

If thou regrett'st thy youth, tohy lice f

The land of honorable death
Is here: — up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out — less often sought than found —

A soldier's grave, for thee the best; Then look around, and choose thy ground. And take thy rest.

Thomas Campbell.


What's hallowed ground? Has

earth a clod Its Maker meant not should be trod By man, the image of his God,

Erect and free,
Unscourged by Superstition's rod,

To bow the knee?

That's hallowed ground — where,

mourned, and missed, The lips repose our love has kissed: — But where's their memory's mansion? Is't

Yon churchyard's bowers! No! in ourselves their souls exist, A part of ours.

A kiss can consecrate the ground Where mated hearts are mutual bound: [wound, The spot where love's first links were

That ne'er are riven, Is hallowed down to earth's profound,

And up to Heaven!

For time makes all but true love old; The burning thoughts that then were told

Run molten still in memory's mould;

And will not cool,
Until the heart itself be cold

In Lethe's pool.

What hallows ground where heroes sleep?

'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap!

In dews that heavens far distant weep

, Their turf may bloom; Or genii twine beneath the deep Their coral tomb:

But Del his ashes to the wind Whose sword or voice has served

mankind — And is he dead, whose glorious mind

Lifts thine on high ? —
To live in hearts we leave behind,

Is not to die.

Is't death to fall for Freedom's right? He's dead alone that lacks her light! And murder sullies in Heaven's sight

The sword he draws: — What can alone ennoble fight ?—

A noble cause!

Give that! and welcome War to brace
Her drums! and rend Heaven's reek-
ing space!
The colors planted face to face,

The charging cheer, —
Though Death's pale horse lead on
the chase, —
Shall still be dear.

And place our trophies where men kneel

To Heaven! — but Heaven rebukes my zeal!

The cause of Truth and human weal,

O God above! Transfer it from the sword's appeal

To Peace and Love.

Peace! Love! the cherubim that join Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine,

Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine,

Where they are not;
The heart alone can make divine

Religion's spot.

To incantations dost thou trust, And pompous rights in domes august?

See mouldering stones and metals, rust

Belie the vaunt, That men can bless one pile of dust With chime or chant.

The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man!

The temples — creeds themselves,

grow wan! But there's a dome of nobler span,

A temple given Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban —

Its space is Heaven!

Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling, Where trancing the rapt spirit s feeling,

And God himself to man revealing, The harmonious spheres

Make music, though unheard their pealing By mortal ears.

Fair stars! are not your beings pure? Can sin, can death your worlds obscure?

Else why so swell the thoughts at your

Aspect above? Ye must be Heavens that make us sure

Of heavenly love!

And in your harmony sublime
I read the doom of distant time;
That man's regenerate soul from

Shall yet be drawn,
and reason on his mortal clime

Immortal dawn.

What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what

gives birth To sacred thoughts in souls of

worth! —

Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth

Earth's compass round; And your high priesthood shall make earth

All hallowed ground.


Aix worldly shapes shall melt in
The sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume

Its immortality!
I saw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to

Adown the gulf of Time! I saw the last of human mould, That shall Creation's death behold,

As Adam saw her prime!

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,

The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!

Some had expired in flight, — the brands

Still rusted in their bony hands;

In plague and famine some! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread, And ships were drifting with the dead

To shores where all was dumb!

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,

With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood

As if a storm passed by, Saying, "We are twins in death,

proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis Mercy bids thee go; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears,

That shall no longer flow.

"What though beneath thee man put forth

His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,

The vassals of the will ? —
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day;

For all these trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,

Healed not a passion or a pang
Entailed on human hearts.

"Go, let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall

Life's tragedy again.
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack

Of pain anew to writhe; Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred Or mown in battle by the sword,

Like grass beneath the scythe.

"Even I am weary in yon skies

To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies,

Behold not me expire.

"My lips that speak thy dirge of death —

Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath

To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,—

The majesty of darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!

"This spirit shall return to Him

Who gave its heavenly spark: Yet think not. Sun. it shall be dim

When thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine,

By Him recalled to breath, Who captive led captivity. Who robbed the grave of victory, —

And took the sting from Death!

"Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up

On Nature's awful waste
To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall taste —
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,

On Earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his Immortality,

Or shake his trust in God!"


Yr: Mariners of England!
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved a thousand

The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow:

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave!

For the deck it was their field of fame,

And ocean was their grave;

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain-
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below —
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy winds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return.

Then, then, ye ocean warriors!

Our song and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;

When the fiery fight is heard no more

And the storm has ceased to blow.


How delicious is the winning
Of a kiss at love's beginning,
When two mutual hearts are sighing
For the knot there's no untying!

Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing,
Love has bliss, but love has ruing;
Other smiles may make you fickle,
Tears for other charms may trickle.

Love he comes, and Love he tarries,
Just as fate or fancy carries;
Longest stays, when sorest chidden;
Laughs and flies, when pressed and

Bind the sea to slumber stilly,
Bind its odor to the lily,
Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver,
Then bind Love to last for ever!

Love's a fire that needs renewal

Of fresh beauty for its fuel;

Love's wing moults when caged and

captured, Only free, he soars enraptured.

Can you keep the bee from ranging, Or the ring-dove's neck from changing?

No! nor fettered Love from dying
In the knot there's no untying.


A Chieftain, to the Highlands bound.

Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy water?" "O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ulliu's daughter,

"And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together,

For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen 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 apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;

And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,

Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us 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 rowed amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing; Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore;

His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,

His child he did discover; One lovely hand she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.

"Comeback! comeback!" he cried in grief,

"Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter! — O my daughter!"

'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,

Return or aid preventing: — The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.


Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse

you, 'tis true, Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon


For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teemed around me

with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight. Like treasures of silver and gold.

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