We retire at eleven,

And we rise again at seven;

And I wish to call attention, as I close,

To the fact that all the scholars

Are correct about their collars,

And particular in turning out their toes.

Charles E. Carryl

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM

(August 13, 1704)

It was a summer evening;

Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage-door
Was sitting in the sun;

And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild, Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round, That he beside the rivulet,

In playing there, had found:

She ran to ask what he had found,

That was so large and smooth and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh,

"T is some poor fellow's skull," said he,

"Who fell in the great victory.

"I find them in my garden,

For there's many here about; And often, when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory."

"Now tell us what 't was all about,"
Young Peterkin, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for."

"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for
I could not well make out;
But everybody said," quoth he,
"That 't was a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by;

They burned his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide,

And many a childing mother then,

And new-born baby, died;

But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun:

But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won

And our good Prince Eugene."

"Why, 't was a very wicked thing!"

Said little Wilhelmine.

"Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he,

"It was a famous victory.

"And everybody praised the Duke,
Who this great fight did win."
"But what good came of it at last?"
Quoth little Peterkin.

"Why, that I cannot tell," said he;

"But 't was a famous victory."

- Robert Southey

TO THOMAS MOORE

My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore,

Here's a double health to thee!

Here's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.

Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.

Were 't the last drop in the well,
As I gasped upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,

'T is to thee that I would drink.

With that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour

Should be- peace to thine and mine,

And a health to thee, Tom Moore.

George Gordon Byron

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved- and for ever grew still'

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent- the banners alone -
The lances uplifted - the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?

XXII

No; 't was but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;