THE TIGER

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine

eyes

? On what wings dare he aspire ? What the hand dare seize the fire ?

And what shoulder and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart ?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand, and what dread feet?

What the hammer? What the chain ?
In what furnace was thy brain ?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile his work to see ?
Did He who made the lamb make thee ?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake. HOHENLINDEN 1

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow ;
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven ; Then rushed the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of Heaven,

Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis
morn,
but scarce

yon

level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulph’rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave
Who rush to glory, or the grave !
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where

many

meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

Thomas Campbell.

a

SONG

HARK, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies ;
And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes ;
With everything that pretty bin,
My lady sweet, arise ;
Arise, arise !

Shakespeare.

THE ROVER

“ A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid,
A
weary

lot is thine !
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,

And the rue for wine.
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,

A feather of the blue,

press

A doublet of the Lincoln green,
No more of me you knew,

My Love!
No more of me you knew.

“ The morn is merry June, I trow,

The rose is budding fain ;
But she shall bloom in winter snow

Ere we two meet again.”
He turned his charger as he spake

Upon the river shore,
He
gave

the bridle-reins a shake,
Said, “ Adieu for evermore,

My Love!
And adieu for evermore.”

Sir Walter Scott.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT

CORUNNA 1

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.

a

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning ;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin inclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ;

1 Note 16.

1

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his

head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they 'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he 'll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock tolled the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun

That the foe was 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!

Charles Wolfe.