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!
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
T. Campbell

XCII

LOVE AND GLORY

Young Henry was as brave a youth
As ever graced a gallant story;
And Jane was fair as lovely truth,

She sigh'd for Love, and he for Glory!

With her his faith he meant to plight,
And told her many a gallant story;
Till war, their coming joys to blight,
Call'd him away from Love to Glory!

Young Henry met the foe with pride;

Jane followed, fought! ah, hapless story!
In man's attire, by Henry's side,

She died for Love, and he for Glory.

T. Dibdin

XCIII

AFTER BLENHEIM

It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet

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,
For there's many here about ;
And often when I go to plough
The ploughshare turns them out.
For many a thousand men,' said he,
'Were slain in that great victory.'

'Now tell us what 'twas all about,'

Young Peterkin he cries: And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes ; 'Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for.'

'It was the English,' Kaspar cried,
Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for
I could not well make out.
But every body said,' quoth he,
'That 'twas a famous victory.

'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.

'Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good Prince Eugene ;'
'Why 'twas a very wicked thing!'
Said little Wilhelmine;

'Nay, nay, my little girl,' quoth he,
'It was a famous victory.

'And every body praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win.'
'But what good came of it at last?'
Quoth little Peterkin.

‘Why that I cannot tell,' said he,

'But 'twas a famous victory.'

R. Southey

XCIV

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER

One morning (raw it was and wet

A foggy day in winter time)

A woman on the road I met,

Not old, though something past her prime : Majestic in her person, tall and straight; And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead;

Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred

Such strength, a dignity so fair:

She begged an alms like one in poor estate;

I looked at her again nor did my pride abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
'What is it?' said I, 'that you bear
Beneath the covert of your cloak,
Protected from this cold damp air?'

She answered, soon as she the question heard, 'A simple burthen, Sir, a little singing bird.'

And, thus continuing, she said,
'I had a son, who many a day
Sail'd on the seas, but he is dead;
In Denmark he was cast away:

And I have travelled weary miles to see If aught that he had owned might still remain for me.

The bird and cage they both were his :
'Twas my son's bird; and neat and trim
He kept it: many voyages

The singing bird had gone with him;

When last he sailed, he left the bird behind ; From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his

mind.

W. Wordsworth

XCV

MAHMOUD

There came a man, making his hasty moan
Before the Sultan Mahmoud on his throne,
And crying out - My sorrow is my right,
And I will see the Sultan, and to-night.'