Fill'd with his soul, she could not dieHer conquest was posterity! LINES WRITTEN AT SPITHEAD. HARK to the knell ! It comes on the swell Of the stormy ocean wave; 'Tis no earthly sound, But a toll profound From the mariner's deep sea grave. When the billows dash, And the signals flash, And the thunder is on the gale; And the ocean is white In its own wild light, Deadly, and dismal, and pale. When the lightning's blaze Smites the seaman's gaze, And the sea rolls in fire and in foam; And the surges' roar Shakes the rocky shore, We hear the sea-knell come. There 'neath the billow, The sand their pillow, Ten thousand men lie low; And still their dirge Is sung by the surge, When the stormy night-winds blow. Sleep, warriors! sleep On your pillow deep In peace! for no mortal care, No art can deceive, No anguish can heave The heart that once slumbers there. LEONIDAS. SHOUT for the mighty men Who died along this shore,— Who died within this mountain glen ! Was laid on valour's crimson bed, Nor ever prouder gore Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day Upon thy strand, Thermopyla! Shout for the mighty men, Who on the Persian tents, Like lions from their midnight den, Let loose from an immortal hand, But there are none to hear; Greece is a hopeless slave. LEONIDAS! no hand is near To lift thy fiery falchion now: The voice that should be raised by men, And it is given! the surge The tree-the rock-the sandOn freedom's kneeling spirit urge, In sounds that speak but to the free, The memory of thine and thee! The vision of thy band Still gleams within the glorious dell, Where their gore hallow'd, as it fell! And is thy grandeur done? Mother of men like these! Has not thy outcry gone Where Justice has an ear to hear? Are plunged the chain and scimitar, THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS. It was the wild midnight, The torrent swept the glen, The ocean lash'd the shore; To make their bed in gore! Swift from the deluged ground Then, silent, gather'd round He spoke no warrior-word,— The fiery element Show'd, with one mighty gleam, Rampart, and flag, and tent, Like the spectres of a dream. All up the mountain side, All down the woody vale, All by the rolling tide Waved the Persian banners pale. And King Leonidas, Among the slumbering band, Sprang foremost from the pass, Like the lightning's living brand. Then double darkness fell, And the forest ceased its moan; But there came a clash of steel, And a distant, dying groan. Anon, a trumpet blew, And a fiery sheet burst high, That o'er the midnight threw A blood-red canopy. A host glared on the hill,— |