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HOHENLINDEN.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,

All bloodless lay th' 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 array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,

And furious every charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry..

Then shook the hills with thunder riv❜n, Then rush'd the steed to battle driv❜n,

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 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 sulph'rous 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!

Few, few, shall part where many meet!

The snow shall be their winding sheet,

And

every

turf beneath their feet,

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

MARINERS OF ENGLAND,

A NAVAL ODE.

I.

YE Mariners of England!

That guard our native seas:

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

The battle, and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow.

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