'Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save:

So peace instead of death let us bring:
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet

To our King.'

Then Denmark bless'd our chief
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,

As death withdrew his shades from the day:
While the sun look'd smiling bright

O'er a wide and woeful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.

Now joy, old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep

Full many a fathom deep

By the wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,

On the deck of fame that died,

With the gallant good Riou:

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!

While the billow mournful rolls

And the mermaid's song condoles

Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

T. Campbell.

AFTER BLENHEIM

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.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round
Which 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 shook his head,
And with a natural sigh

"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 slain in that 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 fought each other for.'

'It was the English,' Kaspar cried,
'Who put the French to rout;

But what they fought each other for
I could not well make out.

But everybody said,' quoth he,
'That 'twas a famous victory.

'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.

'With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide

And many a childing mother then

And newborn baby died:

But things like that, you know, must be

At every famous victory.

'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.

'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 everybody praised the Duke
Who this great 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.'

HERVÉ RIEL

R. Southey.

I

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,
Did the English fight the French,-woe to France!
And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue,
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks

pursue,

Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view.

II

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase;

First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;

Close on him fled, great and small,

Twenty-two good ships in all;

And they signalled to the place

'Help the winners of a race!

Give us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick-or,

quicker still,

Here's the English can and will!'

III

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board;

'Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?'

laughed they:

'Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored,

Shall the Formidable here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside?

Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!'

IV

Then was called a council straight.

Brief and bitter the debate:

'Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take

in tow

All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,
For a prize to Plymouth Sound?

Better run the ships aground!'
(Ended Damfreville his speech.)
'Not a minute more to wait!

Let the Captains all and each

Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate.

V

'Give the word!' But no such word

Was ever spoke or heard;

For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these -A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate-first, second, third?