Rome shall perish-write that word Rome, for empire far renown'd, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the groundHark! the Gaul is at her gates! Other Romans shall arise, Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame. Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command. Regions Cæsar never knew Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they. Such the bard's prophetic words, She, with all a monarch's pride, Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due Shame and ruin wait for you. ; W. Cowper XCI THE SOLDIER'S DREAM Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground, over power'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought, from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track; 'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part, My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. Stay, stay with us,-rest, thou art weary and worn! XCII LOVE AND GLORY Young Henry was as brave a youth She sigh'd for Love, and he for Glory! With her his faith he meant to plight, Call'd him away from Love to Glory! Young Henry met the foe with pride; She died for Love, and he for Glory. T. Dibdin XCII AFTER BLENHEIM It was a summer evening, And by him sported on the green She saw her brother Peterkin In playing there had found ;` He came to ask what he had found That was so large and smooth and round. 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, 'Now tell us what 'twas all about,' 'It was the English,' Kaspar cried, 'My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by ; They burnt 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. '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. |