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 in the sky.

There 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 BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA.

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried:
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
On the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sod with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclos'd his breast,
Nor in sheet, nor in shroud we wound him
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial coat around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow:

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,

The foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow.

gone,

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-
But little he'll 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 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 and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.

WOLFE.

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 ceas'd - 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 blest our chief,
And he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief,
From her people wildly rose;

As death withdrew his shade from the day. While the sun look'd smiling bright

O'er a wide and woeful sight,

When the fires of fun'ral light

Died away.

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 the joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!

Brave hearts to Britain's pride,
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame had died
With the gallant, good Riou. *

Soft sigh the winds of Heav'n o'er the grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,

And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!

CAMPBELL.

BOADICEA.

AN ODE.

When the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage, and full of grief.

"Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

"Rome shall perish-write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,

Deep in ruin as in guilt.

1 Captain Riou, justly called the gallant and good, by Lord Nelson, when he wrote home his dispatches.