And still they rowed amidst the roar Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover. "Come back! Come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter! O my daughter!" 'Twas vain the loud waves lashed the shore, The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting. T. Campbell. CCXIV. FALL OF WARSAW. ! SACRED Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandours and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland and to man ! -- Warsaw's last champion from her heights surveyed, And swear for her to live! — with her to die! Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career. Hope for a season bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked, as Kosciusko fell! O righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave, Departed spirits of the mighty dead! Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled! T. Campbell CCXV. HOHENLINDEN. N Linden, when the sun was low, ON All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Then shook the hills with thunder riven But redder yet that light shall glow, '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 Few, few shall part, where many meet! T. Campbell CCXVI. WAR-SONG OF THE GREEKS, 1822. AGAIN to the battle Achaians! Our land, Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance; The pale, dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefather's graves. Their spirits are hovering o'er us, And the sword shall to glory restore us. Ah! what though no succor advances, Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances Are stretched in our aid? - Be the combat our own! Or that dying, our deaths shall be glorious. A breath of submission we breathe not; The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not; Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. Earth may hide-waves engulf — fire consume us, If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves, And new triumphs on land are before us. To the charge! - Heaven's banner is o'er us! Our women O say, shall they shriek in despair, If a coward there be that would slacken, Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from, and named for, the godlike of earth. Strike home!-- and the world shall revere us As heroes descended from heroes. Old Greece lightens up with emotion Her inlands, her isles of the ocean: Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee sing, That were cold, and extinguished in sadness; When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens. T. Campbell. CCXVII. THE FLIGHT OF XERXES. I SAW him on the battle-eve When like a king he bore him; |