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THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.-Southey. It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun.

And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;

He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large and smooth and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,

"'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,
I could not well make out.

But every body said,” quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by ;

They burn'd his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly :

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,
And new born baby died;

But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

"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.'

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The Isles of Greece! the Isles of Greece !
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,-
Where grew the arts of war and peace,-
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all except their sun is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
"Islands of the blest."


sire's your

The mountains look on Marathon--
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And nursing there an hour alone,

I dream'd that Greece might still be free;
For, standing on the Persian's grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sat on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis,
And ships, by thousands, lay below,

And men in nations ;-all were his!
He counted them at break of day-
And when the sun set where were they?
And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now-

The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?
'Tis something in the dearth of fame,
Though link'd among a fettered race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing suffuse my face;

For what is left the poet here!

For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear.
Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd?
Must we but blush?-Our Father's bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla!

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;

Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,

And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call-
How answers each bold bacchanal !
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave-
Think ye he meant them for a slave?
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!

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!
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
Exists the remnant of a line

Such as the Doric mothers bore ;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,
The Heracleidan blood might own.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks-
They have a king who buys and sells.
In native swords, and native ranks,
The only hope of courage dwells;
But Turkish force and Latin fraud,
Would break your shield, however broad.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade-
I see their glorious black eyes shine:
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must nourish slaves.
Place me on Sunium's marble steep-
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die :
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine—
Dash down
your cup of Samian wine!

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Sound the clarion, sweep the string,

Blow into rage the muse's fires;

All thy answers, Echo, bring,

Let wood and dale, let rock and valley ring,

"Tis madness, self inspires.

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