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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 stainèd 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.


OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lowered,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,

By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track; 'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn

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Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore

From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobbed 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 returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.


ACHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,

Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!

And I'll give thee a silver pound

To row us o'er the ferry."

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"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?"

Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together; For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover ?”

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight:

"I'll go, my chief—I'm ready. It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady.

"And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry;

So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the feiry."

By this the storm grew loud
The water-wraith was shrieking;

And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rodc armèd men—

Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O haste thee, haste !" the lady cries,
"Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her—

When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing―
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore;
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade His child he did discover;

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water;

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter!-O my daughter!"

Twas vain :—the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing;

The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.



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 anticipate the scene;

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