On the deck of fame that died: With the gallant good Riou:° Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! And the mermaid's song condoles, Of the brave! HOHENLINDEN° THOMAS CAMPBELL ON Linden, when the sun was low, Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, The darkness of her scenery. 70 5 To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven; And louder than the bolts of Heaven, 15 But redder yet that light shall glow 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, And charge with all thy chivalry! Few, few shall part, where many meet! 20 25 30 THE SOLDIER'S DREAM THOMAS CAMPBELL OUR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, 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 dreamt it again. 5 ΙΟ Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far, I had roam'd 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, 15 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 kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, 19 And my wife sobb'd 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 return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. THE RED THREAD OF HONOR° SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE (1810-1881) was born at Nunapple, Yorkshire, and was educated at Eton and Oxford. He was called to the bar in 1831. He is known chiefly as the author of the 'Loss of the Birkenhead,' the 'Private of the Buffs,' and the 'Red Thread of Honor,' one of the noblest battle poems in the language. He was appointed Professor of Poetry at Oxford in 1867, and occupied the chair ten years. ELEVEN men of England A breastwork charged in vain ; Lie stripped, and gashed, and slain. Their rock-built fortress well, The robber-chief mused deeply Above those daring dead; 'Bring here,' at length he shouted, 'Bring quick the battle thread. Let Eblis blast forever Their souls, if Allah will: But We must keep unbroken The old rules of the Hill. 'Before the Ghiznee tiger Leapt forth to burn and slay; Before the holy Prophet° Taught our grim tribes to pray; Before Secunder's° lances Pierced through each Indian glen; Were framed for fearless men. 'Still, when a chief dies bravely, 20 25 We bind with green one wrist — One crimson thread we twist. For these, whose life has fled, The green one or the red?' . Our brethren, laid in honored graves, may wear 30 Their green reward,' each noble savage said; 'To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear, Who dares deny the red?' Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right, Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came; Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height Rolled back its loud acclaim. Once more the chief gazed keenly Down on those daring dead; From his good sword their heart's blood 36 40 |