CXXXVIII. THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. It was a summer evening, -Southey. Old Kaspar's work was done. She saw her brother Peterkin In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found, Old Kaspar took it from the boy, And then the old man shook his head, "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; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes. "Now tell us all about the war, And what they killed each other for." "It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they killed each other for, But every body said,” quoth he, "My father lived at Blenheim then, 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, But things like that, you know, must be "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 Marlboro' won, And our good Prince Eugene." "Why 'twas a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine. "Nay-nay-my 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 ! I dream'd that Greece might still be free; A king sat on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis, And men in nations ;- -all were his! The heroic bosom beats no more! For what is left the poet here! For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear. What silent still? and silent all? Ah! no-the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, "Let one living head, But one arise, we come, we come !" 'Tis but the living who are dumb. In vain-in vain: strike other chords; 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 A tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen. The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades! Oh! that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Such as the Doric mothers bore; Trust not for freedom to the Franks- CXL. ODE TO MADNESS.-Penrose. Sound the clarion, sweep the string, Let wood and dale, let rock and valley ring, 'Tis madness, self inspires. |