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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 clock struck 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.


Son of the ocean isle!

Where sleep your mighty dead?
Show me what high and stately pile

Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed.

Go, stranger! track the deep,

Free, free, the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,

Where rest not England's dead.

On Egypt's burning plains,

By the pyramid o’ersway'd,
With fearful power the noon-day reigns,
And the palm-trees yield no shade.



But let the angry sun

From Heaven look fiercely red,
Unfelt by those whose task is done!

There slumber England's dead.

The hurricane hath might

Along the Indian shore,
And far, by Ganges' banks at night,

Is heard the tiger's roar.

But let the sound roll on!

It hath no tone of dread,
For those that from their toils are gone;-

There slumber England's dead!

Loud rush the torrent-floods

The western wilds among,
And free, in green Columbia's woods,

The hunter's bow is strung.

But let the floods rush on!

Let the arrow's flight be sped!
Why should they reck whose task is done?

There slumber England's dead!

The mountain-storms rise high

In the snowy Pyrenees,
And toss the pine-boughs through the sky,

Like rose-leaves on the breeze,

But let the storm rage on!

Let the forest-wreaths be shed;
For the Roncesvalles' field is won,-

There slumber England's dead.



On the frozen deep's repose

'Tis a dark and dreadful hour, When round the ship the ice-fields close,

To chain her with their power.

But let the ice drift on!

Let the cold-blue desert spread! Their course with mast and flag is done,

There slumber England's dead.

The warlike of the isles,

The men of field and wave!
Are not the rocks their funeral piles,

The seas and shores their grave?

Go, stranger! track the deep,

Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.

Mrs. Hemans.




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
Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;
He came 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
“'Tis some poor fellow's skull,” said he,
“Who fell in the great victory.

“I find them in the 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 'twas 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 every body said,” quoth he, “That 'twas a famous victory.

“My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt 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 newborn 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.

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