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Hark, 'tis victory's deathless knell!
Lodi shall remember well I
Austerlitz! Marengo! tell

Of his glorious chivalry !

Tell his deeds by field and flood !
Witness river, mountain, wood !
Show his path of fire and blood,

That burned behind him gloriously!

Alas! that hero's life should close
In languid, fameless, dull repose
Far from the contest that bestows

On mortals immortality.

Alas! that he, the great, the brave, Should fill a hermit's bloodless grave, Where never rolled the hallowing wave

Of battle and of victory!

He should have died on bloody field, Where column after column wheeled, Where cannon roared and charger reeled,

Amid destruction's revelry.

He should have laid his glorious head
Amid the wreck himself had made,
Ten thousand corpses round him spread,

The flow'r of all his enemy.

Spirit of undying name,
Endless honour thou shalt claim,

Whilst thy foes, unknown to fame,

Shall weep in cold obscurity!

Glory's hallowed light divine
Ever on thy head shall shine,
And valour's heart will be thy shrine,

Thy portion vast futurity!



O THOU vast Ocean ! ever

er-sounding sea ! Thou symbol of a drear immensity! Thou thing that windest round the solid world Like a huge animal, which, downward hurl'd From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone, Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone. Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep Is like a giant's slumber, loud and deep. Thou speakest in the east and in the west At once, and on thy heavily laden breast Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life Or motion, yet are moved and meet in strife. The earth hath nought of this; nor chance nor change Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare Give answer to the tempest-woken air ; But o'er its wastes, the weakly tenants range At will, and wound his bosom as they go. Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow;

But in their stated round the seasons come
And pass like visions to their viewless home,
And come again and vanish : the young Spring
Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming,
And Winter always winds his sullen horn,
And the wild Autumn with a look forlorn
Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies
Weep, and flowers sicken, when the Summer flies.

-Thou only, terrible Ocean, hast a power,
A will, a voice, and in thy wrathful hour,
When thou dost lift thine anger to the clouds,
A fearful and magnificent beauty shrouds
Thy broad green forehead. If thy waves be driven
Backwards and forwards by thé shifting wind,
How quickly dost thou thy great strength unbind,
And stretch thine arms, and war at once with Heaven!

Thou trackless and immeasurable main !
On thee no record ever lived again
To meet the band that writ it; line nor lead
Hath ever fathom'd thy profoundest deeps,
Where haply the huge monster swells and sleeps,
King of his watery limit, who 'tis said
Can move the mighty ocean into storm.-
Oh! wonderful thou art, great element:
And fearful in thy spleeny humours bent,
And lovely in repose : thy summer form
Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves
Make music in earth's dark and winding caves,
I love to wander on thy pebbled beach,
Marking the sunlight at the evening hour,
And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach-
“Eternity, Eternity, and Power."



Among the dwellings framed by birds

In field or forest with nice care, Is none that with the little Wren's

In sougness may compare.

No dnor the tenement requires,

And seldom needs a laboured roof; Yet is it to the fiercest sun

Impervious and storm-proof.

So warm, so beautiful withal,

In perfect fitness for its aim, That to the kind by special grace

Their instinct surely came.

And when for their abodes they seek

An opportune recess,
The Hermit has no finer eye

For shadowy quietness.

These find, 'mid ivied Abbey walls,

A canopy in some still nook ; Others are pent-housed by a brae

That overhangs a brook.

There to the brooding Bird her Mate

Warbles by fits his low, clear song ; And by the busy streamlet both

Are sung to all day long.

Or in sequester'd lanes they build,

Where till the flitting Bird's return, Her eggs within the nest repose,

Like relics in ap urn.

But still, where general choice is good,

There is a better and a best ; And, among fairest objects, some

Are fairer than the rest ;

This, one of those small Builders proved

In a green covert, where, from out The forehead of a pollard oak,

The leafy antlers sprout;

For she who planned the mossy lodge,

Mistrusting her evasive skill, Had to a Primrose looked for aid

Her wishes to fulfil.

High on the trunk's projecting brow,

And fixed an infant's span above The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest,

The prettiest of the grove !

The treasure proudly did I show

To some whose minds without disdain Can turn to little things, but once

Looked up for it in vain :

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