THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown, All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determin'd hand, And the Prince of all the land Like Leviathans, afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; It was ten of April morn by the chime. There was silence deep as death ; But the might of England flush'd And her van the fleeter rush'd VOL. IV. A A Hearts of oak! our captains 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 cease- -and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail; Or in conflagration pale Light the gloom. Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd 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, To our king. Then Denmark blest our chief, As death withdrew his shades from the day. While the sun look'd smiling bright, O'er a wide and woful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away. Now joy, Old England, raise! While the wine-cup shines in light; By thy wild and stormy steep, Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Soft sigh the winds of heav'n o'er their grave! While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Of the brave. DE BRUCE, DE BRUCE. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. De Bruce! De Bruce !—with that proud call Thy glens, green Galloway, Grow bright with helm, and axe, and glaive, The English shafts are loosed, and see The southern nobles urge their steeds, Earth shudders 'neath their feet- Flow gently onwards, gentle Orr, And broke the English ranks ; Here fiery Randolph came; And stubborn Maxwell too was here, Which gleams on Johnstone's heel. De Bruce! De Bruce !-yon silver star, Fair Alice, it shines sweet The lonely Orr, the good greenwood, The sod aneath our feet, Yon pasture mountain green and large, Shall die-shall dry-shall cease to be, And earth and air be mute; The sage's word, the poet's song, And woman's love, shall be Things charming none,-when Scotland's heart Warms not with naming thee. De Bruce! De Bruce!-on Dee's wild banks, And on Orr's silver side, Far other sounds are echoing now Than war-shouts answering wide: The sickle shines, and maiden's songs But minstrel-mirth, and homely joy, And heavenly libertie De Bruce! De Bruce !-we owe them all Lord of the mighty heart and mind, And theme of many a song! I see thee bound along, |