THE TIGER TIGER, tiger, burning bright In what distant deeps or skies And what shoulder and what art, What the hammer? What the chain? When the stars threw down their spears, Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, William Blake. HOHENLINDEN 1 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; 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 '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. 1 Note 15. The combat deepens. On, ye Who rush to glory, or the brave grave! Wave, Munich all thy banners wave, Few, few shall part where many meet! Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. Thomas Campbell. 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 Shakespeare. THE ROVER "A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A doublet of the Lincoln green, No more of me you knew, No more of me you knew. "The morn is merry June, I trow, But she shall bloom in winter snow He turned his charger as he spake NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin inclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; 1 Note 16. But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, Few and short were the prayers we said, But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 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, But little he 'll reck, if they let him sleep on 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. |