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And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still; All night from tower to tower they sprang; they sprang from hill to hill;

Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales;

Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of


Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely


Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest

of light;

Till broad and fierce the star came forth, on Ely's stately


And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless


Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent,
And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of


Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burnt on Gaunt's embattled


And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of


Lord Macaulay.


YE mariners of England,

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved a thousand years
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe;
And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow!

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The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave;

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave:
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow!

Britannia needs no bulwarks,

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 floods 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.

T. Campbell.


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;

By each gun the lighted brand

In a bold determined hand,

And the Prince of all the land

Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat,

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,

There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.

But the might of England flush'd
To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rush'd

O'er the deadly space between.

"Hearts of oak!" our captains cried, when each gun From its adamantine lips

Spread a dead-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
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

Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then

As he hail'd them o'er the wave, "Ye are brothers! ye are men!

And we conquer but to save:

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."



Then Denmark blest 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:
While the sun look'd smiling bright

O'er a wide and woeful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.

Now joy, old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,

Whilst the wine cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true.
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant good Riou:

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,

And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

T. Campbell.

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