There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath,
For a time.

III

But the might of England flush'd

To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rush'd

O'er the deadly space between.

"Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

IV

And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back;

Their shots along the deep slowly boom:
Then ceased- and all is wail,

As they strike the shatter'd sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.

V

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hailed them o'er the wave;
"Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save:

So peace instead of death let us bring;
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet

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And make submission meet
To our King."

VI

Then Denmark bless'd our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,

As Death withdrew his shades from the day,
While the sun looked smiling bright

O'er a wide and woful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

VII、

Now joy, Old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,

By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!

VIII

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true;
On the deck of fame that died;
With the gallant good Riou°;

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave

While the billow mournful rolls,

And the mermaid's song condoles,

Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave.

CHARLES WOLFE

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT
CORUNNA

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

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But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 15 And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

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Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our weary task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone But we left him alone with his glory.

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LORD BYRON

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON

A FABLE

I

My hair is gray, but not with years,
Nor grew it white

In a single night,

As men's have grown from sudden fears.

My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,
But rusted with a vile repose,

For they have been a dungeon's spoil,
And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are banned, and barred

forbidden fare;
But this was for my father's faith
I suffered chains and courted death;
That father perished at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake;
And for the same his lineal race
In darkness found a dwelling-place;
We were seven I who now are one,
Six in youth, and one in age,
Finished as they had begun,
Proud of Persecution's rage;
One in fire, and two in field,

Their belief with blood have sealed":
Dying as their father died,

For the God their foes denied;