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Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere the moon | And upon platforms where the oak-trees grew, be risen, Trumpets he set, huge beyond dreams of wonder,

My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison),

I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow
sunlight shine

Craftily purposed, when his arms withdrew,
To make him thought still housed there, like
the thunder:

the Rhine.

On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, -fair Bingen on And it so fell; for when the winds blew right, They woke their trumpets to their calls of might. Unseen, but heard, their calls the trumpets blew, Ringing the granite rocks, their only bearers, Till the long fear into religion grew,

And nevermore those heights had human darers. Dreadful Doolkarnein was an earthly god;

His walls but shadowed forth his mightier frowning;

Armies of giants at his bidding trod

From realm to realm, king after king discrowning.

When thunder spoke, or when the earthquake

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"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along, I heard,
or seemed to hear,
The German songs we used to sing, in chorus
sweet and clear;

And down the pleasant river, and up the slant-
ing hill,

The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;

And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk,

Down many a path beloved of yore, and well

remembered walk!

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,

But we'll meet no more at Bingen, -loved Bingen on the Rhine."

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The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down

On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody

corses strewn ;,

Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,

As it shone on distant Bingen, fair Bingen on

the Rhine.

CAROLINE E. NORTON.

WITH awful walls, far glooming, that possessed The passes 'twixt the snow-fed Caspian fountains,

stirred,

Then, muttering in accord, his host was heard.

Is he then dead? Can great Doolkarnein die?

Or can his endless hosts elsewhere be needed?
Were the great breaths that blew his minstrelsy
Phantoms, that faded as himself receded?
Or is he angered? Surely he still comes ;

THE TRUMPETS OF DOOLKARNEIN.

This silence ushers the dread visitation; Sudden will burst the torrent of his drums, And then will follow bloody desolation.

[In Eastern history are two Iskanders, or Alexanders, who are sometimes confounded, and both of whom are called Doolkar

nein, or the Two-Horned, in allusion to their subjugation of East So did fear dream; though now, with not a sound and West, horns being an Oriental symbol of power.

To scare good hope, summer had twice crept round.

One of these heroes is Alexander of Macedon; the other a con. queror of more ancient times, who built the marvellous series of

ramparts on Mount Caucasus, known in fable as the wall of Gog and Magog, that is to say, of the people of the North. It reached from the Euxine Sea to the Caspian, where its flanks originated the subsequent appellation of the Caspian Gates.]

Doolkarnein, the dread lord of East and West, Shut up the northern nations in their mountains;

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Then gathered in a band, with lifted eyes,

The neighbors, and those silent heights as-
cended.

Giant, nor aught blasting their bold emprise,
They met, though twice they halted, breath
suspended:
Once, at a coming like a god's in rage
With thunderous leaps, -

but 't was the piled

snow, falling;

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow !
What cares he ? he cannot know ;

Lay him low!

And once, when in the woods an oak, for age,

Fell dead, the silence with its groan appalling. At last they came where still, in dread array, As though they still might speak, the trumpets lay. Unhurt they lay, like caverns above ground,

The rifted rocks, for hands, about them clinging, Their tubes as straight, their mighty mouths as

round And firm as when the rocks were first set ring.

ing Fresh from their unimaginable mould They might have seemed, save that the storms

had stained them With a rich rust, that now, with gloomy gold In the bright sunshine, beauteously engrained

them. Breathless the gazers looked, nigh faint for awe, Then leaped, then laughed. What was it now

they saw ?

Fold him in his country's stars,

Roll the drum and fire the volley ! What to him are all our wars ? What but death bemocking folly ?

Lay him low, lay hiin low,
In the clover or the snow !

Leave him to God's watching eye ;

Trust him to the hand that made him.
Mortal love weeps idly by ;
God alone has power to aid him.

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow !
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low !

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

Myriads of birds. Myriads of birds, that filled

The trumpets all with nests and nestling voices ! The great, huge, stormy music had been stilled By the soft needs that nursed those small, sweet

noises ! O thou Doolkarnein, where is now thy wall ?

Where now thy voice divine and all thy forces ? Great was thy cunning, but its wit was small

Compared with nature's least and gentlest

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS.

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Last night, among his fellow roughs,

He jested, quaffed, and swore ; A drunken private of the Buffs,

Who never looked before. To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,

He stands in Elgin's place, Ambassador from Britain's crown,

And type of all her race.

LEIGH HUNT.

THE KNIGHT'S TOMB.

WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn ?
Where may the grave of that good man be? —
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
Under the twigs of a young birch-tree !
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
Is gone, - and the birch in its stead is grown.
The knight's bones are dust,
And his good sword rust ;-
His soul is with the saints, I trust.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,

Bewildered, and alone,
A heart, with English instinct fraught,

He yet can call his own.
Ay, tear his body limb from limb,

Bring cord or axe or flame,
He only knows that not through him

Shall England come to shame.

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed,

Like dreams, to come and go ;
Bright leagues of cherry blossom gleamed,

One sheet of living snow;
The smoke above his father's door

In gray soft eddyings hung;
Must he then watch it rise no more,

Doomed by himself so young?

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER.

Close his eyes ; his work is done !

What to him is friend or foeman, Rise of moon or set of sun,

Hand of man or kiss of woman?

Yes, honor calls ! — with strength like steel

He put the vision by ;
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel,

An English lad must die.

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And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then :
Though they to one be ten,

Be not amazed ;
Yet have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun

By fame been raised.

Our good steeds snuff the evening air,

Our pulses with their purpose tingle ;
The foeman's fires are twinkling there ;
He leaps to hear our sabres jingle !

Halt!
Each carbine send its whizzing ball :
Now, cling ! clang ! forward all,

Into the fight !
Dash on beneath the smoking dome :

Through level lightnings gallop nearer! One look to Heaven ! No thoughts of home : The guidons that we bear are dearer.

CHARGE !
Cling! clang ! forward all !
Heaven help those whose horses fall :

Cut left and right !

:

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.

They flee before our fierce attack !

They fall! they spread in broken surges. Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, And leave the foeman to his dirges.

WHEEL !
The bugles sound the swift recall :
Cling! clang ! backward all !
Home, and good night!

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

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 BALLAD 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 Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,

Landed king Harry.

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That with the cries they make The very earth did shake; Trumpet to trumpet spake,

Thunder to thunder.

Upon St. Crispin's day Fought was this noble fray, Which fame did not delay

To England to carry ; O, when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen, Or England bried again

Such a King Harry ?

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

Well it thine age became,
O noble 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,

HOTSPUR'S DESCRIPTION OF A FOP.

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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.

KING HENRY IV.," PART I. But I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed, Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, new reaped, Showed like a stubble-land at harvest-home; He was perfumed like a milliner ; And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held A pouncet-box, which ever and anon He gave his nose, and took 't away again ; Who, therewith angry, when it next came there, Took it in snuff :--and still he smiled and talked ; And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a slovenly un handsome corse Betwixt the wind and his nobility. With many holiday and lady terms He questioned me ; among the rest, demanded My prisoners in your majesty's behalf. I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold, To be so pestered with a popinjay, Out of my grief and my impatience, Answered neglectingly, I know not what, He should, or he should not; for he made me mad To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman, Of guns, and drums, and wounds, -God save the

mark ! And telling me, the sovereign’st thing on earth Was parmaceti for an inward bruise ; And that it was great pity, so it was, That villanous saltpetre should be digged Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed So cowardly ; and, but for these vile guns, He would himself have been a soldier.

This while our noble king,
His broadsword 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.

Glo'ster, 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.

SHAKESPEARE.

MARMION AND DOUGLAS.

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.

Not far advanced was morning day,
When Marmion did his troop array

To Surrey's camp to ride ;
He had safe-conduct for his band,

Beneath the royal seal and hand,
And Douglas gave a guide :
The ancient Earl, with stately grace,
Would Clara on her palfrey place,
And whispered in an undertone,
"Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown." —
The train from out the castle drew,
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu :
"Though something I might plain," he said,
"Of cold respect to stranger guest,
Sent hither by your king's behest,

While in Tantallon's towers I stayed,
Part we in friendship from your land,
And, noble Earl, receive my hand.”-
But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke :
"My manors, halls, and bowers shall still
Be open, at my sovereign's will,

To each one whom he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
My castles are my king's alone,
From turret to foundation-stone,
The hand of Douglas is his own;
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp."-

--

Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire,

And "This to me!" he said,
"An 't were not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared

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I tell thee, thou 'rt defied!
And if thou said'st I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,

To cleave the Douglas' head!
And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer,
He who does England's message here,
Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate:
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,

Even in thy pitch of pride,
Here in thy hold, thy vassals near,
(Nay, never look upon your lord,
And lay your hands upon your sword,)

No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no!

Up drawbridge, grooms, - what, Warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall."

Lord Marmion turned, - well was his need!-
And dashed the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung;

The ponderous grate behind him rung :
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars, descending, razed his plume.

The steed along the drawbridge flies,
Just as it trembled on the rise;
Not lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim;
And when Lord Marmion reached his band,
He halts, and turns with clenched hand,
And shout of loud defiance pours,

And shook his gauntlet at the towers.

"Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and

chase!"

But soon he reined his fury's pace:
"A royal messenger he came,
Though most unworthy of the name.

St. Mary, mend my fiery mood!
Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood,
I thought to slay him where he stood.
"T is pity of him too," he cried;
"Bold can he speak, and fairly ride :
I warrant him a warrior tried."
With this his mandate he recalls,
And slowly seeks his castle halls.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

MARMION AT FLODDEN FIELD.

[The battle was fought in September, 1513, between the forces of England and Scotland. The latter were worsted, and King James slain with eight thousand of his men. Lord Surrey commanded the English troops.]

A MOMENT then Lord Marmion stayed,
And breathed his steed, his men arrayed,
Then forward moved his band,
Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won,
He halted by a cross of stone,
That, on a hillock standing lone,

Did all the field command.

Lord Angus, thou hast lied!”—
On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age:
Fierce he broke forth, "And dar'st thou then Not in the close successive rattle

To beard the lion in his den,

That breathes the voice of modern battle,
But slow and far between.

The Douglas in his hall?

And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go?

The hillock gained, Lord Marmion stayed :
"Here, by this cross," he gently said,
"You well may view the scene;
Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare :
O, think of Marmion in thy prayer!—
Thou wilt not?. well, no less my care
Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare.

Hence might they see the full array
Of either host for deadly fray;

Their marshalled lines stretched east and west,
And fronted north and south,
And distant salutation past

From the loud cannon-mouth;

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