English Narrative Poems Part 4

They wept--and turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet!"

--When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge 45 They tracked the footprints small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they crossed; The marks were still the same; 50 They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; 55 And further there were none!

--Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild. 60

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.

THOMAS CAMPBELL

HOHENLINDEN

On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser,[104] rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight, 5 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, 10 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, 15 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. 20

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 25 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, 30 And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC

I

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; 5 By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on.

II

Like leviathans afloat, 10 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, 15 There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath, For a time.

III

But the might of England flush'd To antic.i.p.ate the scene; 20 And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly s.p.a.ce between.

"Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the s.h.i.+ps, 25 Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.

IV

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane 30 To our cheering sent us back;-- Their shots along the deep slowly boom:-- Then ceased--and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail; Or, in conflagration pale, 35 Light the gloom.

V

Out spoke the victor then, As he hailed them o'er the wave; "Ye are brothers! ye are men!

And we conquer but to save:-- 40 So peace instead of death let us bring; But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet And make submission meet To our King." 45

VI

Then Denmark bless'd our chief, That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As Death withdrew his shades from the day, 50 While the sun looked smiling bright O'er a wide and woful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away.

VII

Now joy, Old England, raise! 55 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, 60 Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!

VIII

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true; 65 On the deck of fame that died;-- With the gallant good Riou[105]; Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, 70 Singing glory to the souls Of the brave.

CHARLES WOLFE

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA[106]

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.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 5 The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.