You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet;
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave,—
Think ye he meant them for a sláve?
'Tis something, in the dearth of fame,
Though linked among a fettered race,
To feel, at least, a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks, a blush,-for Greece, a tear!
Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush? Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead !
Of the three hundred, grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla !
What! silent still? and silent áll?
Ah! nò;-the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent fall,
And answer, "Let one living head, But one arise,-we come, WE COME !" 'Tis but the living who are dumb.
HOHENLINDEN.
ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When beat the drum at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And, furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And, louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden's hills of stainéd snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave!
And charge with all thy chivalry!
THERMOPYLÆ.
'T WAS an hour of fearful issues,
When the bold three hundred stood,
For their love of holy freedom,
By that old Thessalian flood,—
When, lifting high each sword of flame,
They called on every sacred name,
And swore, beside those dashing waves,
They never, never would be slaves!
And, O that oath was nobly kept!
From morn to setting sun
Did desperation urge the fight
Which valor had begun;
Till, torrent-like, the stream of blood
Ran down and mingled with the flood,
And all, from mountain-cliff to wave,
Was Freedom's, Valor's, Glory's grave
O, yes! that oath was nobly kept,
Which nobly had been sworn,
And proudly did each gallant heart
The foeman's fetters spurn;
And firmly was the fight maintained,
And amply was the triumph gained;
They fought, fair Liberty, for thee:
They fell,-TO DIE IS TO BE FREE!
The following lines were written on a tradition of an Indian's revenge for his murdered family.
THE Indian stood in stately pride,
His eyeballs rolling wild and wide,
And glaring on his prostrate foe,
Writhing beneath the expected blow;
His teeth were clinched, his nostrils wide,
And ever and anon he cried :—
"My father, wife, and children died
By thee, thou cruel one;
My cherished hopes of years are o'er,
My friends are bleeding on the shore,
Thy hands are reeking with their gore,
And I am all undone.
"And shall they unavenged still sleep,
And I still linger there to weep?
Nay, nay, I swear by sea and land,
The hour of vengeance is at hand;
Thou 'st robbed me of a father, wife,
And children. What to me is life?
A desert wild, a waste of years,
A scene of trouble and of tears;
My children, slain by thy white hand,
Are waiting in yon distant land:
come, I come, with vengeance dread;
White man,
I go when thou art dead."
He said, and seized his foe,
Rushing upon the rocky height,
That overhung the abyss of night,
Where high he held the quivering form,
Above the cataract of storm,
And sung the death-song wild and high,
With yell that echoed through the sky,
Then with him plunged below:
And long, when they had disappeared,
From echoing caves and rocks were heard,
The shrill and solemn sounding word,
"I COME! I COME!"
BATTLE OF FLODDEN FIELD.
When doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare:
"Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustice, where? Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare?
Redeem my pennon,-charge again!
Cry, Marmion to the rescue!'—Vain !
Last of my race, on battle-plain
That shout shall ne'er be heard again!
Yet my last thought is England's :-fly!
To Dacre bear my signet-ring,
Tell him his squadrons up to bring;
Fitz-Eustice, to Lord Surrey hie!
Tunstall lies dead upon the field;
His life-blood stains the spotless shield:
Edmund is down,-my life is reft!
The admiral alone is left.
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland's central host,
Or victory and England's lost,
Must I bid twice ?-hence varlet's, fly!
Leave Marmion here alone,-to die."
They parted, and alone he lay:
Clare drew her from the sight away,
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmured: "Is there none,
Of all my halls have nursed,
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessed water from the spring,
To slake my dying thirst?"
Scarce were the piteous accents said,
When with the baron's casque, the maid
To the nigh streamlet ran:
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears:
The plaintive voice alone she hears,
Sees but the dying man.
She stooped her by the runnel's side,
But in abhorrence backward drew; For, oozing from the mountain's side,
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