XLIV.

At that most blessed name, as at a spell,

Conscience, the God within him, smote his heart. His hand for murder raised unharming fell,

He felt cold sweat-drops on his forehead start,

A moment mute in holy horror stood,

Then cried, "Joy, joy, my God! I have not shed his blood !”

XLV.

He raised Anselmo up, and bade him live,
And bless, for both preserved, that holy name;
And pray'd the astonish'd foeman to forgive
The bloody purpose led by which he came.
Then to the neighbouring church he sped away,
His overburthen'd soul before his God to lay.

XLVI.

He ran with breathless speed,—he reach'd the door,
Tumultuous tides his throbbing pulses swell—
He came to crave for pardon, to adore

For grace vouchsafed; before the cross he fell,
And raised his swimming eyes, and thought that there
He saw the imaged Christ smile favouring on his prayer.

XLVII.

A blest illusion! From that very night
The monk's austerest life devout he led;
And still he felt the enthusiast's deep delight,
And seraph-visions floated round his head;
The joys of heaven foretasted fill'd his soul,
And still the good man's name adorns the sainted roll.

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

I.

It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done;
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

II.

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.

III.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh,

'Tis some poor fellow's skull, said he, Who fell in the great victory.

IV.

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 slain in the great victory.

V.

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.

VI.

It was the English, Kaspar cried,
That put the French to rout;
But what they kill'd each other for,
I could not well make out.
But everybody said, quoth he,
That 'twas a famous victory.

VII.

My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by,

They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

VIII.

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.

IX.

They say it was a shocking sight,
After the field was won,

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun;

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

X.

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.