Place me on Sunium's marbled 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 yon cup of Samian wine!

_Coleridge's Text._

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

20. _Hohenlinden._

On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neigh'd, To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riv'n, Then rush'd the steed to battle driv'n, And louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow, On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave!

Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few, shall part where many meet!

The snow shall be their winding sheet, And every turf beneath their feet, Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

_1809 Edition._

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

21. _Say not the Struggle Nought Availeth._

Say not, the struggle nought availeth, The labour and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be, in yon smoke concealed, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light, In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright.

_1869 Edition._

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

22. _Youth and Age._

Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying, Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee-- Both were mine! Life went a maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was young!

When I was young?--Ah, woful when!

Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!

This breathing house not built with hands, This body that does me grievous wrong, O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, How lightly then it flashed along:-- Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar, That fear no spite of wind or tide!

Nought cared this body for wind or weather When Youth and I liv'd in't together.

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; Friendship is a sheltering tree; O! the joys, that came down shower-like, Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, Ere I was old.

Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere, Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!

O Youth! for years so many and sweet 'Tis known, that Thou and I were one, I'll think it but a fond conceit-- It cannot be, that Thou art gone!

Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:-- And thou wert aye a masker bold!

What strange disguise hast now put on, To make believe, that Thou art gone?

I see these locks in silvery slips, This drooping gait, this altered size: But springtide blossoms on thy lips, And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!

Life is but thought: so think I will That Youth and I are house-mates still.

Dew-drops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve!

Where no hope is, life's a warning That only serves to make us grieve, When we are old:

That only serves to make us grieve With oft and tedious taking-leave, Like some poor nigh-related guest, That may not rudely be dismist.

Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while, And tells the jest without the smile.

_1869 Edition._

WILLIAM COLLINS.

23. _Written in the Year 1746._

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes bless'd!