What will she do, thy fatherland? She will drive her tyrant foes away; She will scare the blood-hound from his prey; Or will yield him at least a freeman's grave; And what are the hopes of thy fatherland? She hopes at length for a glorious prize; She hopes in the great award of Heaven, THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX. I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; ROBERT BROWNING. "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride for stride, never changing our place; 'T was moonset at starting; but while we drew near And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray. And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back And one eye's black intelligence,-ever that glance By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! 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 "How they'll greet us!"-and all in a moment his roan Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, 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, 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 More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, WORDSWORTH. As more exposed to suffering and distress, Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Is happy as a lover, and attired With sudden brightness as a man inspired, GUSTAVUS'S BATTLE SONG. ALTENBURG. Sung by the whole Swedish army before the battle of Lützen, at which FEAR not, O little flock, the foe, What though your courage sometimes faints, Be of good cheer,-your cause belongs As true as God's own word is true, A jest and byword are they grown ; 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 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, Thine, my bark, is keener sight, Freer thou, my bark, to roam— Tempest eagle! As a warrior in his might, Bears him in the wave of fight, Quell the waves that round thee dash, 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, The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame, Your manly hearts shall glow, |