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 blessed 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, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; And yet, amidst 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!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

_The Pipes at Lucknow_

Pipes of the misty moorlands, Voice of the glens and hills; The droning of the torrents, The treble of the rills!

Not the braes of broom and heather, Nor the mountains dark with rain, Nor maiden bower, nor border tower, Have heard your sweetest strain!

Dear to the Lowland reaper, And plaided mountaineer,-- To the cottage and the castle The Scottish pipes are dear;-- Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch O'er mountain, loch, and glade; But the sweetest of all music The pipes at Lucknow played.

Day by day the Indian tiger Louder yelled, and nearer crept; Round and round, the jungle-serpent Near and nearer circles swept.

"Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,-- Pray to-day!" the soldier said, "To-morrow, death's between us And the wrong and shame we dread."

Oh, they listened, looked, and waited, Till their hope became despair; And the sobs of low bewailing Filled the pauses of their prayer.

Then up spake a Scottish maiden, With her ear unto the ground: "Dinna ye hear it?--dinna ye hear it?

The pipes o' Havelock sound!"

Hushed the wounded man his groaning; Hushed the wife her little ones; Alone they heard the drum-roll And the roar of Sepoy guns.

But to sounds of home and childhood The Highland ear was true;-- As her mother's cradle crooning The mountain pipes she knew.

Like the march of soundless music Through the vision of the seer, More of feeling than of hearing, Of the heart than of the ear, She knew the droning pibroch, She knew the Campbell's call: "Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's, The grandest o' them all!"

O, they listened, dumb and breathless, And they caught the sound at last; Faint and far beyond the Goomtee Rose and fell the piper's blast!

Then a burst of wild thanksgiving Mingled woman's voice and man's; "G.o.d be praised!--the march of Havelock!

The piping of the clans!"

Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call, Stinging all the air to life.

But when the far-off dust cloud To plaided legions grew, Full tenderly and blithesomely The pipes of rescue blew!

Round the silver domes of Lucknow, Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine, Breathed the air to Britons dearest, The air of Auld Lang Syne.

O'er the cruel roll of war drums Rose that sweet and homelike strain; And the tartan clove the turban As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.

Dear to the corn-land reaper And plaided mountaineer,-- To the cottage and the castle The piper's song is dear.

Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch O'er mountain, glen, and glade; But the sweetest of all music The pipes at Lucknow played!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

_The Battle of Agincourt_

Fair stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry; But putting to the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train, Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort, Furnished in warlike sort, Marched towards Agincourt In happy hour-- Skirmishing day by day With those that stopped his way, Where the French general lay With all his power.

Which in his height of pride, King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide To the king sending.

Which he neglects the while, As from a nation vile, Yet with an angry smile Their fall portending.

And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then, "Though they be one to ten, Be not amazed; Yet have we well begun, Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By fame been raised.

"And for myself," quoth he, "This my full rest shall be, England ne'er mourn for me, Nor more esteem me.

Victor I will remain, Or on this earth lie slain, Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me."

Poitiers and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell; No less our skill is Than when our grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat Lopped the French lilies.

The Duke of York so dread The eager vaward led; With the main Henry sped, Amongst his henchmen.

Excester had the rear-- A braver man not there: O Lord! how hot they were On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone; Armor on armor shone; Drum now to drum did groan-- To hear was wonder; That with the cries they make The very earth did shake; Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became, O n.o.ble Erpingham!

Which did the signal aim To our hid forces; When, from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly, The English archery Struck the French horses, With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung, Piercing the weather; None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts, Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw, And forth their bilboes drew, And on the French they flew, Not one was tardy; Arms were from shoulders sent, Scalps to the teeth were rent, Down the French peasants went, Our men were hardy.

This while our n.o.ble King, His broad sword brandishing, Down the French host did ding, As to o'erwhelm it; And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent Bruised his helmet.

Gloucester, that duke so good, Next of the royal blood, For famous England stood, With his brave brother, Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade; Oxford the foe invade, And cruel slaughter made, Still as they ran up.

Suffolk his axe did ply; Beaumont and Willoughby Bare them right doughtily, Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin's Day Fought was this n.o.ble fray, Which fame did not delay To England to carry; Oh, when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again Such a King Harry?

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

_The Battle of Blenheim_

It was a summer's 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!"