The Poetical Works of Thomas Campbell

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G. Bell and Sons, 1891 - 313 pages
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Page 75 - n. Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; 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, Por a time.— in. But the might of England
Page 84 - Come back ! come back !" he cried in grief, " Across this stormy water : And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter !—oh, my daughter !"— Twas vain :—the loud waves lash'd the shore, Return or aid preventing :— The waters wild went o'er his child,
Page 76 - sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away. VII. Now joy, Old England, raise ! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, 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
Page 71 - in fight. They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ; Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
Page 96 - Who robb'd the grave of Victory,— And took the sting from Death ! Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up On Nature's awful waste To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste— Go, tell the night that hides thy face, Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, On Earth's sepulchral clod,
Page 76 - IV. 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,
Page 78 - Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow ; When the fiery fight is heard no more, HOHENLINDEN. |N Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay th
Page 95 - Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Thou dim discrowned king of day : For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Heal'd not a passion or a pang Entail'd on human hearts. Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men, Nor with thy rising beams recall

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