THE STORMING OF MAGDEBURGH.
WHEN the breach was open laid,
Bold we mounted to the attack:
Five times the assault was made;
Four times were we driven back!
But the fifth time up we strode,
O'er the dying and the dead.
Red the western sunbeams glowed,
Sinking in a blaze of red;
Redder in the gory way -
Our deep plashing footsteps sank,
As the cry of "Slay-Slay-Slay!"
Echoed fierce from rank to rank.
And we slew, and slew, and slew:
Slew them with unpitying sword.
Negligently could we do
The commanding of the Lord?
Fled the coward, fought the brave,
Wept the widow, wailed the child;
But there did not 'scape the glaive
Man that frowned, nor babe that smiled.
There were thrice ten thousand men
When that morning's sun arose;
Lived not thrice three hundred when
Sunk that sun at evening's close.
THE STORMING OF MAGDEBURGH.
Then we spread the wasting flame,
Fed to fury by the wind:
Of the city but the name,
Nothing else, remained behind.
But it burned not till it gave
All it had to yield of spoil:
Should not brave soldadoes have
Some rewarding for their toil?
What the villain sons of trade
Earned by years of toil and care,
Prostrate at our bidding laid,
In one moment won- was there.
Hall and palace, dome and tower,
Lowly cot and soaring spire,
Sank in that victorious hour
Which consigned the town to fire.
Then throughout the burning town,
'Mid the steaming heaps of dead,
Cheered by sound of hostile moan,
We the gorgeous banquet spread:
Laughing loud and quaffing long,
At our glorious labor o'er,
To the skies our jocund song
Told Magdeburgh was no more!
THE MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA.
O, SING unto my roundelay!
O, drop the briny tear with me! Dance no more at holiday:
Like a running river be!
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow tree.
Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as the summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light; Cold he lies in the grave below.
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; Quick in dance as thought can be;
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout.
O! he lies by the willow tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing,
In the briered dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares as they go.
THE MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA.
See! the white moon shines on high!
Whiter is my true-love's shroud :
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.
Here, upon my true-love's grave,
Shall the gairish flowers be laid ;
Nor one holy saint to save
All the sorrows of a maid.
With my hands I'll bind the briers,
Round his holy corse to gre;
Elf and fairy, light your fires!
Here my body still shall be.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn!
Drain my heart's blood all away
Life and all its good I scorn:
Dance by night, or feast by day!
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow tree.
Water-witches, crowned with reytes,
Bear me to your deadly tide!
I die! I come! My true-love waits!
Thus the damsel spake - and died.
I GIVE MY SOLDIER-BOY A BLADE.
I GIVE my soldier-boy a blade,
In fair Damascus fashioned well;
Who first the glittering falchion swayed,
Who first beneath its fury fell,
I know not; but I hope to know
That for no mean or hireling trade,
To guard no feeling base or low,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.
Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood
In which its tempering work was done;
As calm, as clear, as cool of mood,
Be thou whene'er it sees the sun : For country's claim, at Honor's call, For outraged friend, insulted maid,
At Mercy's voice to bid it fall,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.
The eye which marked its peerless edge,
The hand that weighed its balanced poise,
Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge,
Are gone, with all their flame and noise;
And still the gleaming sword remains :
So, when in dust I low am laid,
Remember, by these heart-felt strains,
I gave my soldier-boy a blade.
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