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day. Those vaunted ramparts of Italy proved insufficient; you traversed them as rapidly as you did the Apennines. Successes so numerous and brilliant have carried joy to the heart of your country. Your representatives have decreed a festival, to be celebrated in all the communes of the Republic, in honor of your victories. There, will your fathers, mothers, wives, sisters, all who hold you dear, rejoice over your triumphs, and boast that you belong to them.
Yes, Soldiers, you have done much ; but much still remains for you to do. Shall it be said of us that we knew how to conquer, but not to profit by victory? Shall posterity reproach us with having found a Capúa in Lombardy? Nay, fellow-soldiers ! I see you already eager to cry “to arms! Inaction fatigues you; and days lost to glory are to you days lost to happiness. Let us, then, begone! We have yet many forced marches to make ; enemies to vanquish ; laurels to gather; and injuries to avenge! Let those who have sharpened the poniards of civil war in France, who have pusillanimously assassinated our Ministers, who have burned our vessels at Toulon, – let them now tremble! The hour of vengeance has knolled !
But let not the People be disquieted. We are the friends of People: and more especially of the descendants of the Brutuses, the Seipios, and other great men to whom we look as bright exemplars. To rcestablish the Capitol ; to place there with honor the statues of the heroes who made it memorable; to rouse the Roman People, unnerved by many centuries of oppression, - such will be some of the fruits of our victories. They will constitute an epoch for posterity. To you, Soldiers, will belong the immortal honor of redeeming the fairest portion of Europe. The French People, free and respected by the whole world, shall give to Europe a glorious peace, which shall indemnify it for all the sacrifices which it has borne, the last six years. Then, by your own firesides you
fellowcitizens, when they point out any one of you,
He belonged to the army of Italy !”
48. LORD BYRON TO THE GREEKS. — Alphonse De Lamartine.
A STRANGER to your clime, 0 men of Greece !- born under a sun less pure, of an ancestry less renowned, than yours, — I feel how unworthy is the offering of the life I bring you — you, who number kings, heroes and demi-gods, among your progenitors. But, throughout the world, wherever the lustre of your history has shed its rays, —wherever the heart of man has thrilled at the thought of glory, or softened at the mention of misfortune, Greece may count a friend, and her children an avenger. I come not here in the vain hope to stimulate the courage of men already roused and resolved. One sole cry remained for
have uttered it. Your language has now one only word — Liberty! Ah! what other invocation need
the men of Sparta — of Athens to bid them rise? These blue Heavens, these mountains, these waters, here are your orators — here is your present Demosthenes! Wherever the eye can range, wherever the feet can tread, your consecrated soil recounts a triumph or a glorious death. From Leuctra to Marathon, every inch of ground responds to you - cries to you — for vengeance! liberty! glory! virtue! country! These voices, which tyrants cannot stifle, demand, — not words, but steel. T is here! Receive it! Arm! Let the thirsting earth at length be refreshed with the blood of her oppressors! What sound more awakening to the brave than the clank of his country's fetters ? Should the sword ever tremble in your grasp, remember yesterday! think of to-morrow!
For myself, in return for the alliance which I bring you, I ask but the recompense of an honorable grave. I ask but the privilege of shedding my blood with you, in your sacred cause. I ask but to know, in dying, that I too belong to Greece — to liberty! Yes, might the Pilgrim hope that, on the pillars of a new Parthěnon, his name might, one day, be inscribed, — or, that in the nobler mausolēum of your hearts his memory might be cherished, — he were well content. The tomb where Freedom weeps can never have been prematurely reached by its inmate. Such martyrdom is blessed, indeed. What higher fortune can ambition covet?
49. BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE, 1809. - Rev. Charles Wolfe.
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
The sods with our bayonets turning;
And the lantern dimly burning.
Nor in sheet, nor in shroud, we wound him;
With his martial cloak around him.
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they 'll talk of the spirit that is gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
In the grave where a Briton has laid him!
When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun,
That the foe was suddenly 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!
50. THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN, 1800. — Thomas Campbell.
On Linden when the sun was low,
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
The darkness of her scenery.
To join the dreadful revelry.
Far flashed the red artillery.
Of Iser rolling rapidly.
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Ah! few shall part where many meet !
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
51. SONG OF THE GREEKS, 1822. — Thomas Campbell.
Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;
For the cross of our faith is replanted,
The pale dying crescent is daunted,
Their spirits are hovering o'er us,
Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances
For we've sworn by our country's assaulters,
By the virgins they've dragged from our altars,
That, living, we will be victorious,
The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not;
has whetted its blade.
But they shall not to slavery doom us:
And new triumphs on land are before us ;
blush for its story? Or brighten your lives with its glory? Our women — O, 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 us
Her inlands, her isles of the ocean,
Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,
That were cold, and extinguished in sadness;
When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens
52. FALL OF WARSAW, 1794. - Thomas Campbell.
0! SACRED Truth! thy triumph ceased a while,
and to man!
He said; and on the rampart heights arrayed
In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few !