And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing!

For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade
His child he did discover:

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.

"Come back! Come back!" he cried in grief,

"Across this stormy water:

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter! O my daughter!"

'Twas vain the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing:

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

T. Campbell.

CCXIV.

FALL OF WARSAW.

! SACRED Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandours and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,

Presaging wrath to Poland and to man !

--

Warsaw's last champion from her heights surveyed,
Wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid-
O Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save!
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high,

And swear for her to live! — with her to die!
He said; and on the rampart heights arrayed
His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed;
Firm paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm;
Low, murmuring sounds along their banners fly,-
"Revenge, or death!"- the watchword and reply;
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm!
In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!
From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew ;
O! bloodiest picture in the book of Time,
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime;
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!

Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career. Hope for a season bade the world farewell,

And Freedom shrieked, as Kosciusko fell!

O righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave,
Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save?
Where was thine arm, O vengeance! where thy rod,
That smote the foes of Sion and of God?

Departed spirits of the mighty dead!

Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled!
Friends of the world! restore your swords to man,
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van!
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone,
And make her arm puissant as your own!
O! once again to Freedom's cause return
The patriot Tell, -the Bruce of Bannockburn!
Yes, thy proud lords, unpitied land! shall see
That man hath yet a soul, and dare be free!
A little while, along thy saddening plains,
The starless night of Desolation reigns;
Truth shall restore the light by Nature given,
And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven!
Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurled,
Her name, her nature, withered from the world!

T. Campbell

CCXV.

HOHENLINDEN.

N Linden, when the sun was low,

ON

All bloodless lay the 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 arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven
Then rushed the steed, to battle driven;
And louder than the bolts of Heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden's hills of stainéd 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 sulphurous 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.

T. Campbell

CCXVI.

WAR-SONG OF THE GREEKS, 1822.

AGAIN to the battle Achaians!

Our land,

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;
the first garden of Liberty's tree —
It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free;
For the cross of our faith is replanted,

The pale, dying crescent is daunted,

And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefather's graves. Their spirits are hovering o'er us,

And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succor advances,

Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances

Are stretched in our aid? - Be the combat our own!
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone;
For we've sworn by our country's assaulters,
By the virgins they 've dragged from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins, —
That living we will be victorious,

Or that dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not;

The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not; Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.

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!

Our women O say, shall they shriek in despair,
Cr 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 godlike 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 yon 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.