THE victory of Miltiades over the Persians, B. C. 490, delivered the Grecian States from great danger, and united them in a common defence.

No vesper-breeze is floating now,

No murmurs shake the air;

A gloom hath veiled the mountain's brow,

And quietude is there;

The night-beads on the dew-white grass

Drop brilliant as my footsteps pass.

No hum of life disturbs the scene,
The clouds are rolled to rest;
'Tis like a calm where grief hath been,
So welcome to the breast.

The warring tones of day have gone,
And starlight glows on Marathon.

'T was here they fought; and martial peals
Once thundered o'er the ground,

And gash and wound from plunging steels
Endewed the battle-mound;

Here Grecians trod the Persian dead,

And Freedom shouted while she bled.

At the head of his faithful band,

He peals forth his terrible cry,

And he fiercely leaps 'mid the slaughtered heaps
Of the foe that but fought to die.

Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans

That soar, to earth may fall,

Let once my army leader, Lannes,
Waver at yonder wall,"

Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew

A rider, bound on bound,

Full galloping; nor bridle drew

Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung, in smiling joy,

And held himself erect,

Just by his horse's mane, a boy;
You hardly could suspect-

(So tight he kept his lips compressed,

Scarce any blood came through)

You looked twice, ere you saw his breast

Was almost shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace

We've got you Ratisbon!

The Marshal's in the market-place,

And

you 'll be there anon,

To see your flag-bird flap his vans

Where I, to heart's desire,

Perched him." The chief's eyes flashed; his plans
Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eyes flashed; but presently

Softened itself, as sheathes

A film the mother eagle's eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes.

"You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride

Touched to the quick, he said;

"I'm killed, sire!" and, his chief beside,

Smiling, the boy fell dead.

ROBERT BROWNING.

24. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

AT the close of a battle between the French and English at Corunna, Spain, January 16, 1809, Sir John Moore was buried in a hastily made grave upon the English ramparts, late at night, and wrapped in his military clothing. He had repeatedly said that, if killed in battle, he wished to be buried where he fell.

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,

Nor 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,
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
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.

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 heavy 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, we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone with his glory.

CHARLES Wolfe.

25. THE BATTLE OF LINDEN.

HOHENLINDEN, Bavaria, near which the Austrians, under Archduke John, were defeated by the French and Bavarians under General Moreau, December 3, 1800, at the close of a raging snow-storm.

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 the drum beat 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 flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of blood-stained 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 sulphurous 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!