The Blue Poetry Book

While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line:
It was ten of April morn by the chime:
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath
For a time. —

But the might of England flush’d
To anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rush’d
O’er the deadly space between.
‘Hearts of oak!’ our captains cried, when each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.

Again! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back; —
Their shots along the deep slowly boom; —
Then ceased – and all is wail,
As they strike the shatter’d sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then
As he hail’d them o’er the wave;
‘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 thy 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.

YOUNG LOCHINVAR

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West!
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none;
He rode all unarm’d, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stay’d not for brake and he stopp’d not for stone;
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he enter’d the Netherby Hall,
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all; —
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),
’O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?

‘I long woo’d your daughter, my suit you denied; —
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide; —
And now am I come with this lost Love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!’