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The Battle of Blenheim.

Itowa Kalpars work was done;

And he before his cottage door

Was fitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round,
That he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round,
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by
And then the old man fhook his head,

And with a nat'ral figh,
'Tis some poor fellow's skull, said he,
Who fell in the great victory.
I find them in the garden, for

There's many here about,
And often, when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out ;
For many thousand men, said he,
Were flain in the great victory.
Now tell us what 'twas all about,

Young Peterkin he cries,
And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes;
Now tell us all about the war,
And what they kill'd each other for.
It was the English, Kaspar cry'd,

That put the French to rout;

But what they kill'd each other for,

I could not well make out.
But ev'ry body said, quoth he,
That 'twas a famous victory.
My father liv'd at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by,
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,

And he was forc'd to fly:
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide.
And many a childing mother then,

And new-born infant died.
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
They say it was a shocking fight

After the field was won, For

many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the fun; But things like that, you know, muft be After a famous victory. Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,

And our good Prince Eugene.
Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!

Said little Wilhelmine.
Nay-nay-my little girl, quoth he,
It was a famous victory.
And every body prais'd the Duke

Who such a fight did win.
But what good came of it at last?--

Quoth little Peterkin.
Why, that I cannot tell, said he,
But 'twas a famous victory.

Henry the 4th's Invocation to Sleep.
Ow many thousands of my poorest subjects
Are at this hour alleep!- deep, O gentle sleep,

Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
Why rather, sleep, ly'st thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,
And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy flumber;
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,
And lulld with sounds of sweeteft melody?
O thou dull god, why ly'st thou with the vile,
In loathsome beds : and leav'st the kingly couch,
A watch-case, or a common larum bell?'.
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy masts
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious furge ;
And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deafʼning clamours in the flippery clouds,
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes ?
Canft thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude!

the And, in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, it down ! Aleron Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.


Extempore on seeing Hoole's Tragedy of Cyrus.


-Thou'rt not a fool :
But, do not tire us
More with Cyrus.


MAFhow'rt not a fool:

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'HE fun was just retir'd, the dews of eve

Their glow-worm lustre scatter'd o'er the vale ; The lonely nightingale began to grieve,

Telling, with many a pause, her tend'reft tale. No clamours loud disturbid the pensive hour,

And the young Moon, yet fearful of the night, Rear'd her pale crescent o'er the burnish'd tow'r,

That caught the parting orb's still ling’ring light. 'Twas then, where peasant footsteps mark'd the way,

A wounded Soldier feebly mov'd along, Nor aught regarded he the soft’ning ray,

Nor the melodious bird's expressive song.. Les On crutches borne, his mangled limbs he drew,

Unfightly remnants of the battle's rage; While Pity, in his youthful form, might view

A helpless prematurity of age.

Then, as with strange contortions, lab'ring flow,

He gain'd the summit of his native hill,
And saw the well-known prospect spread below,

The farm, the cot, the hamlet, and the mill:
In spite of Fortitude, one struggling sigh

Shook the firm texture of his tortur'd heart : And from his hollow and dejected eye

One trembling tear hung ready to depart. " How chang’d," he cry'd, “is the fair scene to me,

« Since last across this narrow path I went ! « The foaring lark felt not superior glee,

« Nor any human breast more true content. « When the fresh hay was o'er the meadow thrown,

« Amidst the busy throng I still appear’d; “My prowess too at harvest time was shewn,

“ While Lucy's carol ev'ry labour cheer'd. “ The burning rays I scarcely seem'd to feel,

« If the dear maiden near me chanc'd to rove; « Or if she deign'd to share my frugal meal,

“ It was a rich repaft, a feast of love. « And when at evening, with a rustic's pride,

“ I dar'd the sturdiest wrestlers on the green ; " What joy was mine! to hear her at my side,

« Extol my vigour, and my manly mien. « Ah! now no more the sprightly lass shall run

“ To bid me welcome from the sultry plain ; • But her averted eye my light shall fhun,,

“ And all our cherish'd fondest hopes be vain. « Alas! my Parents, must ye too endure

“ That I should gloom for ere your homely mirth, « Exist upon the pittance ye procure,

“ And make ye curse the hour that gave me birth! “ O hapless day! when, at a neighb’ring wake,

« The gaudy serjeant caught my wond'ring eye; “ And as his tongue of war and honour spake,

“ I felt a wish to conquer pr to die.'

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