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 bulwark,

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.

Till 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.

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

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 flushed

To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rushed

O'er the deadly space between.—

Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-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 shattered sail,
Or, in conflagration pale,

Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hailed 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 looked 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,

While the wine cup shines in light;
And yet amid that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,

Full many a fathom deep,

By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore !

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!

HOHENLINDEN.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven:
Then rushed the steed, to battle driven;
And, louder than the bolts of Heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of crimsoned snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part, where many meet;
The snow shall be their winding-sheet;
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

OUR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamed it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track:
'Twas Autumn-and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;
I heard my own mountain goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us,-rest; thou art weary and worn !"
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ;-
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

THOMAS HOOD.

Born 1799. Died 1845.

THE DEATHBED.

WE watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,

So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers,
To eke her being out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied;

We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed-she had
Another morn than ours.

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

ONE more Unfortunate,

Weary of breath,

Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments,
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.-

Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,