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And when Lord Marmion reached his band,
- SIR WALTER SCOTT. Marmion.”
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM
It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
Was sitting in the sun;
Roll something large and round,
In playing there, had found;
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by ;
And, with a natural sigh,
“I find them in the garden,
For there's many hereabout;
men,” said he, “ Were slain in that great victory.”
“ Now tell us what 'twas all about,
Young Peterkin he cries; While 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,
I could not well make out; But everybody said,” quoth he, “ That 'twas a famous victory:
My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream, hard by;
And he was forced to fly;
“ With fire and sword, the country round
Was wasted, far and wide ;
And new-born baby, died;
“ They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won :
Lay rotting in the sun :
“ Great praise the Duke of Marlboro' won,
And our young prince, Eugene.” “Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!
Said little Wilhelmine. “Nay, nay, my little girl !” quoth he, “ It was a famous victory.
“And everybody praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win.” “But what good came of it at last ?”
Quoth little Peterkin. “Why, that I cannot tell,” said he, “But 'twas a glorious victory.”
- ROBERT SOUTHEY. BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his
And we far away on the billow !
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
In the grave where a Briton has laid him !
When the clock tolled the hour for retiring,
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory!
AMONG THE ICEBERGS
The moon rose full and clear upon a sea of mystery. The sun had set behind a black line on our port quarter as we were headed northeast for the passage of Davis Strait to the coast of Greenland. For a moment there was a flush upon the sea, forming a radiance about the icebergs, then across the dark water fell a glittering path of silver, and everywhere were vast, ghostly figures unmoving in the moonlight. The ice was thickening about us. Ahead and upon our starboard quarter it stood in mass, in
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