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CXXXVIII. THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.—Southey. It was a cummer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done
Was sitting in the sun.
Roll something large and round,
In playing there had found;
Who stood expectant by;
And with a natural sigh, 66' 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 plough-share 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;
With wonder-waiting eyes.
“Who put the French to rout;
But what they killed each other for,
I could not well make out.
Yon little stream hard by;
And he was forced to fly :
Was wasted far and wide,
And new born baby died;
After the field was won ;
Lay rotting in the sun;
And our good Prince Eugene.” " Why 'twas a very wicked thing !"
Said little Wilhelmine. “ Nay—naymy little girl," quoth he, “ It was a famous victory.” " And every body praised the Duke
Who this great victory did win." “But what good came of it at last?"
Quoth little Peterkin. " Why that I cannot tell," said he, “But 'twas a famous victory."
CXXXIX. THE ISLES OF GREECE.—Byron. The Isles of Greece! the Isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,-Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phæbus sprung!
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Their place of birth alone is mute
And Marathon looks on the sea;
I dream'd that Greece might still be free; For, standing on the Persian's grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sat on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis,
And men in nations ;-all were his !
My country? On thy voiceless shore
Though link'd among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here !
Must we but blush ?-Our Father's bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead !
Ah! no—the voices of the dead
And answer, “Let one living head,
Fill high the cup with Samian wine !
And shed the blood of Scio's vine !
The nobler and the manlier one?
We will not think of themes like these ! It made Anacreon's song divine :
He served—but served Polycrates-
Was freedoni's best and bravest friend ;
Another despot of the kind!
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, The Heracleidan blood might own. Trust not for freedom to the Franks
They have a king who buys and sells. In native swords, and native ranks,
The only hope of courage dwells; But Turkish force and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !
Our virgins dance beneath the shadeI see their glorious black eyes shine :
But gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must nourish slaves. Place me on Sunium's marble steep
Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die : A land of slaves shall ne'er be mineDash down your cup of Samian wine !
CXL. ODE TO MADNESS.--Penrose. Sound the clarion, sweep the string, Blow into rage the muse's fires;
All thy answers, Echo, bring, Let wood and dale, let rock and valley ring,
'Tis madness, self inspires.