The Land of Song Volume Ii Part 13

Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil: We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil.

The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup.

With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads-- The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds.

'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain; 'Tis life to feel the night wind That lifts his tossing mane.

A moment in the British camp-- A moment--and away Back to the pathless forest, Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with h.o.a.ry hairs, Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers.

And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring.

For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton, Forever, from our sh.o.r.e.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

STARS.

They glide upon their endless way, Forever calm, forever bright; No blind hurry, no delay, Mark the Daughters of the Night; They follow in the track of Day, In divine delight.

s.h.i.+ne on, sweet-orbed Souls for aye, Forever calm, forever bright; We ask not whither lies your way, Nor whence ye came, nor what your light.

Be--still a dream throughout the day, A blessing through the night.

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (BARRY CORNWALL).

NIGHT.

The sun descendeth in the west, The evening star does s.h.i.+ne; The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine.

The moon, like a flower, In heaven's high bower, With silent delight Sits and smiles on the night.

Farewell, green fields and happy groves, Where flocks have ta'en delight; Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves The feet of angels bright; Unseen, they pour blessing, And joy without ceasing, On each bud and blossom, And each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nest, Where birds are covered warm, They visit caves of every beast, To keep them all from harm.

If they see any weeping That should have been sleeping, They pour sleep on their head, And sit down by their bed.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE 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 flushed To antic.i.p.ate the scene; And her van the fleeter rushed O'er the deadly s.p.a.ce between.

"Hearts of oak!" our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death shade round the s.h.i.+ps, 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 cease--and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom.--

Now joy, Old England, raise For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine cup s.h.i.+nes in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep Full many a fathom deep By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE.

How sleep the brave who sink to rest By all their Country's wishes blest!

When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mold, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung: There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay, And Freedom shall awhile repair To dwell a weeping hermit there!

WILLIAM COLLINS.

LLEWELLYN AND HIS DOG.

The spearmen heard the bugle sound, And cheer'ly smiled the morn; And many a dog, and many a hound, Attend Llewellyn's horn.

And still he blew a louder blast, And gave a louder cheer; "Come, Gelert! why art thou the last Llewellyn's horn to hear?

"Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam, The flower of all his race?

So true, so brave--a lamb at home, A lion in the chase."

That day Llewellyn little loved The chase of hart or hare, And scant and small the booty proved, For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied, When, near the portal seat, His truant Gelert he espied, Bounding his lord to greet.

But when he gained the castle door, Aghast the chieftain stood; The hound was smeared with gouts of gore, His lips and fangs ran blood!

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise; Unused such looks to meet, His fav'rite checked his joyful guise, And crouched, and licked his feet.