HOHENLINDEN† On Linden, when the sun was low, But Linden saw another sight, By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Then shook the hills with thunder riven, But redder yet that light shall glow 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun The combat deepens. On, ye brave, CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823) THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE‡ Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. At the Bavarian village of Hohenlinden, not far from Munich, the Austrian army (referred to in this poem as the "Hun") was defeated by the French (the "Frank") in December, 1800. Campbell did not witness the battle, as a pleasing tradition relates, but he was on the continent at the time and witnessed at least one skirmish. Scott greatly admired this ballad, though the author himself spoke somewhat contemptuously of its "drum and trumpet lines." Sir John Moore, a British general, was killed at Corunna in January, 1809, just as the British troops, retreating from the French, were about to embark, though he lived long enough to hear that the French were beaten back. He was buried at night in the citadel. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But half of our weary task was done When the clock struck the note for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun Of the enemy 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. THOMAS MOORE (1779-1852) 32 THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS$ The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more! No more to chiefs and ladies bright The chord alone that breaks at night Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, Is when some heart indignant breaks, THE MINSTREL BOY The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone, And his wild harp slung behind him."Land of song!" said the warrior-bard, "Though all the world betrays thee, One sword at least thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee!"' The Minstrel fell!-but the foeman's chain OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT Oft, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends, so linked together, Like leaves in wintry weather; Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, And all but he departed! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light CHARLES LAMB (1775-1834 THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES 16 I have had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school Tara Hill, some twenty miles from Dublin, is said to have been the seat of the ancient kings of Ireland. days All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother. Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? At your clear hearts; and both seem given to To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song- RONDEAU Jenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in; Say that health and wealth have missed me, So might we talk of the old familiar faces- 18 Say I'm growing old, but add, How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed; ABOU BEN ADHEM Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR (1775-1864) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, ROSE AYLMER* Ah what avails the sceptred race, Ah what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes A night of memories and of sighs LEIGH HUNT (1784-1859) TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKETT Rose, a daughter of Baron Aylmer, and a youth. And saw, within the moonlight in his room, An angel writing in a book of gold: WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED LETTERS FROM TEIGN MOUTH. I.-OUR BALLS You'll come to our ball;-since we parted I've thought of you more than I'll say; Indeed, I was half broken-hearted For a week, when they took you away. Which you used to sing to me then. But, Clarence, you'll come to our Ball! It's only a year since, at College, 12 This is a specimen of the half gay, half grave vers de société of which Praed was a master. Teignmouth is a watering-place in Devonshire. The various places named belong to the locality. The Ness is a promontory. The Den is a promenade formed by a sand-bank between the town and the sea. Haldon is a range of hills: Shaldon, a village just across the river Teign: Dawlish, another seaside resort three miles away. As for the other allusions, Sir Thomas Lawrence was a famous portrait painter of that date (1829); National Schools (line 38) had lately been established at various places by a national society for the education of the poor: "Captain Rock" was a fictitious name signed to public notices by one of the Irish insurgents of 1822: "Hock" is a kind of wine -Hochheimer; a "Blue" is a "blue-stocking" —a woman affecting literature and politics. You'll find us all changed since you vanished; Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout; And I'll tell you the rest at the Ball. At Dawlish, by taking your arm; That ever you danced at our Ball. You once could be pleased with our ballads- You once could be charmed with our salads- You've forgotten the when and the how; There was one you liked better than any-Perhaps you've forgotten her now. But of those you remember most newly, Of those who delight or inthrall, None love you a quarter so truly As some you will find at our Ball. They tell me you've many who flatter, Because of your wit and your song; They tell me (and what does it matter?) You like to be praised by the throng; They tell me you're shadowed with laurel, They tell me you're loved by a Blue; They tell me you're sadly immoral— 48 72 84 Dear Clarence, that cannot be true! But to me you are still what I found you Before you grew clever and tall; And you'll think of the spell that once bound And you'll come, WON'T you come? to our 96 And breathe thy last. So out of Life's fresh crown Fall like a rose-leaf down. Thus are the ghosts to woo; Thus are all dreams made true, Ever to last! THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES (1803-1849) DREAM-PEDLARY* If there were dreams to sell, What would you buy? Some cost a passing-bell; Some a light sigh, That shakes from Life's fresh crown Only a rose-leaf down. If there were dreams to sell, Merry and sad to tell, And the crier rang the bell, What would you buy? A cottage lone and still, With bowers nigh, Shadowy, my woes to still Until I die. Such pearl from Life's fresh crown But there were dreams to sell Life is a dream, they tell, Waking, to die. If there are ghosts to raise, There are no ghosts to raise; Know'st thou not ghosts to sue, No love thou hast. Else lie, as I will do, THOMAS HOOD (1798-1845) THE DEATH-BED We watched her breathing through the night, As in her breast the wave of life So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied We thought her dying when she slept, For when the morn came dim and sad, THE SONG OF THE SHIRT 20 With fingers weary and worn, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! 30 And work-work-work, Till the stars shine through the roof! It's Oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, "Work-work-work, Till the brain begins to swim; Till the eyes are heavy and dim! 40 Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream! 16 S 16 24 |