Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the flood below,
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy winds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor-flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
XXI. THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.
ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden showed 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 those fires shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow;
And bloodier yet shall be the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn-but scarce yon
Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout 'mid their sulphurous 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 !
XXII. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Nor a drum was heard-not a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts 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,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast;
Not in sheet, nor in shroud, we wound him; 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 gaz'd on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow!
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd 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 bell toll'd 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 carv'd not a line-we rais'd not a stone, But we left him alone, with his glory!
XXIII.-ON CRUELTY TO ANIMALS.
I WOULD not enter on my list of friends
(Though graced with polish'd manners and fine sense, Yet wanting sensibility) the man
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
An inadvertent step may crush the snail
That crawls at evening in the public path;
But he that has humanity, forewarn'd,
Will step aside, and let the reptile live.
The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight
And charged with venom, that intrudes,
A visitor unwelcome, into scenes
Sacred to neatness and repose, the bower,
The chamber, or the hall, may die :
A necessary act incurs no blame.
Not so, when held within their proper bounds,
And guiltless of offence, they range the air,
Or take their pastime in the spacious field:
There they are privileged. And he that hurts
Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong;
Disturbs th' economy of Nature's realm,
Who when she form'd, design'd them an abode.
The sum is this: if man's convenience, health,
Or safety interfere, his rights and claims
Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs.
Else they are all the meanest things that are,
As free to live, and to enjoy that life,
As God was free to form them at the first,
Who in his sov'reign wisdom made them all.
Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons
To love it too. The spring time of our years
Is soon dishonour'd and defiled, in most,
By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand
To check them. But alas! none sooner shoots,
If unrestrain'd, into luxuriant growth,
Than cruelty, most devilish of them all.
Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule
And righteous limitation of its act,
By which Heav'n moves, in pard'ning guilty man:
And he that shows none, being ripe in years,
And conscious of the outrage he commits,
Shall seek it-and not find it in his turn.
XXIV. THE COMMON LOT.
ONCE, in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man-and who was he?
Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,
That man resembled thee.
Unknown the region of his birth;
The land in which he died, unknown;
His name has perish'd from the earth :
This truth survives alone ;-
That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear,
Alternate triumphed in his breast:
His bliss and woe-a smile, a tear:
Oblivion hides the rest.
The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits' rise and fall ;
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.
He suffered-but his pangs are o'er ;
Enjoyed but his delights are fled;
Had friends his friends are now no more;
And foes-his foes are dead.
He loved but whom he loved, the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb;
Oh, she was fair! but nought could save
Her beauty from the tomb.
He saw-whatever thou hast seen;
Encountered-all that troubles thee:
He was whatever thou hast been;
He is what thou shalt be!
The rolling seasons, day and night,
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,Erewhile his portion,-life and light;
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