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What will she do, thy fatherland?

She will drive her tyrant foes away;

She will scare the blood-hound from his prey;
She will bear her son no more a slave,

Or will yield him at least a freeman's grave;
Thus will she do, my fatherland!

And what are the hopes of thy fatherland?

She hopes at length for a glorious prize;
She hopes her people will arise;

She hopes in the great award of Heaven,
And she sees, at length, an avenger given;
And these are the hopes of my fatherland!

THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX.

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;

ROBERT BROWNING.

"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;
"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through;
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace

Neck by neck, stride for stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,—
Nor galloped less steadily Roland, a whit.

'T was moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Düffeld, 't was morning as plain as could be;

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland, at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away

The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;

And one eye's black intelligence,-ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance,
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,
We'll remember at Aix "-for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,

Past Looz and past Tongrés, no cloud in the sky;

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,

'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

"How they'll greet us!"-and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,

Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,

Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is, friends flocking round,

As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground,
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine.

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)

Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

THE HAPPY WARRIOR.

WHO, doomed to go in company with Pain
And Fear and Bloodshed,-melancholy train,-
Turns his necessity to glorious gain:

More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,
As tempted more; more able to endure

WORDSWORTH.

As more exposed to suffering and distress,
Thence also more alive to tenderness;
But who, if he be called upon to face

Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined
Great issues, good or bad for human kind,

Is happy as a lover, and attired

With sudden brightness as a man inspired,
And through the heat of conflict keeps the law
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.
He who, though thus endued as with a sense
And faculty for storm and turbulence,
Is yet a soul whose master bias leans
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes,
Who, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause.
This is the Happy Warrior: this is he
Whom every man in arms should wish to be.

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GUSTAVUS'S BATTLE SONG.

ALTENBURG.

Sung by the whole Swedish army before the battle of Lützen, at which
Gustavus Adolphus fell.

FEAR not, O little flock, the foe,
Who madly seeks your overthrow,
Dread not his rage and power;

What though your courage sometimes faints,
His seeming triumph o'er God's saints
Lasts but a little hour.

Be of good cheer,-your cause belongs
To Him who can avenge your wrongs,
Leave it to Him, our Lord.
Though hidden yet from all our eyes,
He sees the Gideon who shall rise
To save us, and his word.

As true as God's own word is true,
Nor earth, nor hell, with all their crew,
Against us shall prevail,——

A jest and byword are they grown ;
"God is with us,"* we are His own,
Our victory cannot fail.

Amen, Lord Jesus, grant our prayer!

Great Captain, now Thine arm make bare

Fight for us once again!

So shall Thy saints and martyrs raise

A mighty chorus to Thy-praise,

World without end. Amen.

THE SONG OF THE SEA-KING.

HARK! the storm-fiend of the deep
Wakes on old Heimdallar's steep,
Yelling out his mountain glee,

Like a soul in agony.

Rouse thee, then, my bark, to go

FROM THE SCANDINAVIAN.

Through the night, and the billowy ocean-snow;

The watchword of the evangelical army on this occasion.

Strong thy bones and huge thy form,

Trampler of the howling storm

Horse of ocean!

Glorious is the eagle's eye!

He gazes afar o'er earth and sky!

He screams from the storm-cloud's misty womb,
He swells his pride in the ocean-gloom!

Thine, my bark, is keener sight,
Broader wing, and longer flight;

Freer thou, my bark, to roam—
Ocean's thine, thy boundless home,

Tempest eagle!

As a warrior in his might,

Bears him in the wave of fight,

Quell the waves that round thee dash,
Round thy breast with thundering crash ·
Though their frown be black as night,
Though their foamy plume be bright,
Quell them, though their stroke be strong,
Though their shout be loud and long,

Warrior of storms!

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

THOMAS CAMPBELL

YE mariners of England!

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved a thousand years

The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave!

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,

Your manly hearts shall glow,

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