Earth may hide--waves engulf--fire consume us, But they shall not to slavery doom us: If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves,-- But we've smote them already with fire on the waves, And new triumphs on land are before us.

To the charge!--Heaven's banner is o'er us!

This day--shall ye blush for its story?

Or brighten your lives with its glory?-- Our women--O say, shall they shriek in despair, Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair?

Accursed may his memory blacken, If a coward there be that would slacken, Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from, and named for, the G.o.dlike of earth.

Strike home!--and the world shall revere us As heroes descended from heroes.

Old Greece lightens up with emotion Her inlands, her isles of the ocean: Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee sing, And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring.

Our hearths shall be kindled with gladness, That were cold, and extinguished in sadness; Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms, Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms,-- When the blood of you Mussulman cravens Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens.

T. Campbell.

CCXVII.

THE FLIGHT OF XERXES.

I saw him on the battle-eve When like a king he bore him; Proud hosts in glittering helm and greave, And prouder chiefs, before him.

The warrior and the warrior's deeds, The morrow and the morrow's meeds,-- No daunting thought came o'er him; He looked around him, and his eye Defiance flashed to earth and sky.

He looked on ocean,--its broad breast Was covered with his fleet: On earth,--and saw from east to west His bannered millions meet; While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast, Shook with the war-cry of that host, The thunder of their feet!

He heard the imperial echoes ring,-- He heard, and felt himself a king.

I saw him next alone;--nor camp Nor chief his steps attended; Nor banner blazed, nor courser's tramp With war-cries proudly blended.

He stood alone, whom Fortune high So lately seemed to deify, He, who with Heaven contended, Fled like a fugitive and slave!-- Behind, the foe; before, the wave!

He stood--fleet, army, treasure, gone-- Alone, and in despair!

But wave and wind swept ruthless on, For they were monarchs there; And Xerxes, in a single bark, Where late his thousand ships were dark Must all their fury dare.

What a revenge, a trophy, this, For thee, immortal Salamis!

Miss Jewsbury.

CCXVIII.

OLD IRONSIDES.

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!

Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky;-- Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon's roar; The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more.

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee; The harpies of the sh.o.r.e shall pluck The eagle of the sea!

O, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave!

Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave!

Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the G.o.d of storms-- The lightning and the gale!

O. W. Holmes.

CCXIX.

CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!" he said.

Into the valley of Death, Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"

Was there a man dismayed?

Not though the soldier knew Some one had blundered; Theirs not to make reply Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of death Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volleyed and thundered: Stormed at with shot and sh.e.l.l, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of h.e.l.l, Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turned in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered: Plunged in the battery smoke, Right through the line they broke Cossack and Russian Reeled from the sabre stroke, Shattered and sundered; Then they rode back, but not-- Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them, Volleyed and thundered: Stormed at with shot and sh.e.l.l, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well, Came through the jaws of h.e.l.l, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?

O, the wild charge they made!

All the world wondered.

Honor the charge they made!

Honor the Light Brigade, n.o.ble six hundred!

A. Tennyson.

CCXX.

ARNOLD WINKELREID.

"Make way for liberty!"--he cried; Made way for liberty, and died!-- It must not be: this day, this hour, Annihilates the oppressor's power!

All Switzerland is in the field, She will not fly, she cannot yield,-- She must not fall; her better fate Here gives her an immortal date.

Few were the numbers she could boast; But every freeman was a host, And felt as though himself were he, On whose sole arm clung victory.

It did depend on one indeed; Behold him,--Arnold Winkelreid!

There sounds not to the trump of fame The echo of a n.o.bler name.

Unmarked he stood among the throng, In rumination deep and long, Till you might see, with sudden grace, The very thought come o'er his face; And, by the motion of his form, Antic.i.p.ate the bursting storm; And, by the uplifting of his brow, Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.

But 't was no sooner thought than done,-- The field was in a moment won!

"Make way for liberty!" he cried, Then ran, with arms extended wide, As if his dearest friend to clasp; Ten spears he swept within his grasp: "Make way for liberty!" he cried-- Their keen points met from side to side; He bowed amongst them like a tree, And thus made way for liberty.

Swift to the breach his comrades fly: "Make way for liberty!" they cry, And through the Austrian phalanx dart, As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart; While, instantaneous as his fall, Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all: An earthquake could not overthrow.

A city with a surer blow.

Thus Switzerland again was free; Thus Death made way for liberty!

J. Montgomery.

CCXXI.

NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD.