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"MEN OF ENGLAND"

Men of England! who inherit

Rights that cost your sires their blood, Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on land and flood: By the foes ye've fought uncounted, By the glorious deeds ye've done, Trophies captured-breaches mounted, Navies conquered-kingdoms won! Yet, remember, England gathers

Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, If the patriotism of your fathers Glow not in your hearts the same. What are monuments of bravery, Where no public virtues bloom? What avail in lands of slavery,

Trophied temples, arch and tomb? Pageants!-Let the world revere us

For our people's rights and laws, And the breasts of civic heroes Bared in Freedom's holy cause.

Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, Sydney's matchless fame is yours,— Martyrs in heroic story,

Worth a hundred Agincourts! We're the sons of sires that baffled Crowned and mitred tyranny: They defied the field and scaffold For their birthrights-so will we!

SONG

TO THE EVENING STAR

Star that bringest home the bee,

And sett'st the weary labourer free! If any star shed peace, 'tis thou,

That send'st it from above,

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Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow, 5 Are sweet as hers we love.

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Come to the luxuriant skies,

Whilst the landscape's odours rise,

Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,

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And songs, when toil is done, From cottages whose smoke unstirred Curls yellow in the sun.

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Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!

Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

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2 A Danish sea-port town about twenty miles from Copenhagen.

Captain Riou, who distinguished himself in an important part of the engagement.

By absence from the heart.

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER (1804)

A Chieftan to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry."-

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And, when in other climes we meet Some isle or vale enchanting,

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Where all looks flow'ry, mild and sweet,
And nought but love is wanting;
We think how great had been our bliss,
If Heav'n had but assign'd us
To live and die in scenes like this,
With some we've left behind us!
As trav'llers oft look back at eve,
When eastward darkly going,
To gaze upon the light they leave
Still faint behind them glowing-
So, when the close of pleasure's day
To gloom hath near consign'd us,
We turn to catch one fading ray

Of joy that's left behind us.

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For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, 45 His child he did discover:

And hearts, that once beat high for praise,

One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover.

Now feel that pulse no more!

No more to chiefs and ladies bright

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water:

The harp of Tara swells;

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The chord, alone, that breaks at night,

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Its tale of ruin tells:

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter!-oh, my daughter!"

Thus freedom now so seldom wakes,

The only throb she gives

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

Is when some heart indignant breaks,

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To show that still she lives!

The waters wild went o'er his child,

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And he was left lamenting.

1 The palace of the ancient kings of Ireland, which is said to have stood on the Hill of Tara, in County Meath, Ireland. 2 Cord, string.

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND

(From the same)

She is far from the land where her young Hero sleeps,

And lovers are round her, sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying!

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She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he lov'd awaking;—
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking!
He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwin'd him, 10
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him!

Oh! make her a grave where the sun-beams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from
the West,

From her own loved island of sorrow!

OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT

(1816)

Oft, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,

Fond Mem'ry brings the light

Of other days around me;

The smiles, the tears,

Of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken;

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GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET

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The eyes that shone,

Now dimm'd and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken!

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Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Mem'ry brings the light

Of other days around me.

When I remember all

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(From Poems, 1850)

Touch us gently, Time!

Let us glide adown thy stream Gently, as we sometimes glide

Through a quiet dream!

Humble voyagers are We,

Husband, wife, and children three

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I love (oh! how I love) to ride

On the fierce foaming bursting tide,

When every mad wave drowns the moon,

Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the south-west blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull tame shore,
But I lov'd the great Sea more and more,
And backwards flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;
And a mother she was, and is to me;
For I was born on the open Sea!

The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born;
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outery wild
As welcomed to life the Ocean-child!

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That hue which haunts it to the tomb, Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of feeling past away!

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Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly

birth,

Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished

earth!

Clime of the unforgotten brave!

Whose land from plain to mountain-cave Was freedom's home, or glory's grave! Shrine of the mighty! can it be,

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That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven crouching slave
Say, is not this Thermopyla?
These waters blue that round you lave,
Oh servile offspring of the free-
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?
The gulf, the rock of Salamis!
These scenes, their story not unknown,
Arise, and make again your own;
Snatch from the ashes of your sires
The embers of their former fires;
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs a name of fear
That tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame
They too will rather die than shame:
For freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft, is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page,
Attest it many a deathless age!

While kings, in dusty darkness hid, Have left a nameless pyramid,

Thy heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy muse to stranger's eye
The graves of those that cannot die!
"Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendour to disgrace;
Enough-no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
Yes! self-abasement paved the way
To villain-bonds and despot-sway.

What can he tell who treads thy shore?

No legend of thine olden time, No theme on which the muse might soar High as thine own in days of yore,

When man was worthy of thy clime..

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