With the crews, at England's feet;
And make submission meet
To our king."

Then Denmark blessed 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 looked 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 thy 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.

THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS-CROLY.

It was the wild midnight; a storm was in the sky; The lightning gave its light, and the thunder echoed

by.

The torrent swept the glen, the ocean lashed the

shore;

Then rose the Spartan men, to make their bed in

gore.

Swift from the deluged ground three hundred took the shield;

Then, silent, gathered round the leader of the field. All up the mountain's side, all down the woody vale, All by the rolling tide waved the Persian banners pale.

And foremost from the pass, among the slumbering band

Sprang King Leonidas, like the lightning's living

brand;

Then double darkness fell, and the forest ceased its

moan;

But there came a clash of steel, and a distant dying

groan.

Anon a trumpet blew, and a fiery sheet burst high,
That o'er the midnight threw a blood-red canopy.
A host glared on the hill, a host glared by the bay,
But the Greeks rushed onward still like leopards in
their play.

The air was all a yell, and the earth was all a flame,
Where the Spartan's bloody steel on the silken tur-

bans came;

And still the Greek rushed on, where the fiery torrent rolled,

Till, like a rising sun, shone Xerxes' tent of gold.

They found a royal feast, his midnight banquet,

there.

And the treasures of the East lay beneath the Doric

spear.

Then sat to the repast the bravest of the brave.

That feast must be their last, that spot must be their

grave.

Up rose the glorious rank, to Greece one cup poured high;

Then hand in hand they drank, "To immortality!"

Fear on King Xerxes fell, when, like spirits from the tomb,

With shout and trumpet knell, he saw the warriors

come.

But down'swept all his power with chariot and with

charge;

Down poured the arrows' shower, till sank the Spartan targe.

Thus fought the Greek of old; thus will he fight

again:

Shall not the self-same mould bring forth the selfsame men?

THE RISING OF THE VENDEE CROLY.

An incident of the French Revolution describing the revolt of the royalist inhabitants of the district of La Vendee against the revolutionary government.

It was a Sunday morning, and sweet and pure the

air,

And brightly shone the Summer sun upon the day of prayer,

And silver-sweet the village bells o'er mount and valley tolled,

And in the Church of St. Florent were gathered young and old;

When rushing down the woodland hill in fiery Ihaste was seen,

With panting steed and bloody spur, a noble

Angevin.

And bounding on the sacred floor, he gave his fearful cry,

"Up! up for France! the time is come for France to live or die!"

"Your queen is in the dungeon; your king is in his

gore.

O'er Paris waves the flag of death, the fiery tri

color.

Your nobles in their ancient halls are hunted down and slain;

In convent cells and holy shrines the blood is poured like rain.

The peasant's vine is rooted up, his cottage given to flame;

His son is to the scaffold sent, his daughter sent to

shame.

With torch in hand and hate in heart the rebel host is nigh.

Up! up for France! the time is come for France to live or die!"

That live-long night the horn was heard from Orleans to Anjou,

And poured from all their quiet fields our shepherds bold and true.

Along the pleasant banks of Loire shot up the beacon-fires,

And many a torch was blazing right on Lucon's stately spires.

The midnight cloud was flushed with flame, that hung o'er Parthenay;

The blaze that shone o'er proud Brissac was like the breaking day,

Till East and West and North and South the loyal beacons shone

Like shooting stars, from haughty Nantes to seabegirt Olonne.

And through the night on horse and foot the sleepless summons flew,

And morning saw the Lily-flag wide-waving o'er

Poitou.

And many an ancient musketoon was taken from

the wall,

And many a jovial hunter's steed was harnessed in the stall,

And many a noble's armory gave up the sword and

spear,

And many a bride, and many a babe, was left with kiss and tear,

And many a homely peasant bade farewell to his old dame,

As in the days when France's king unfurled the oriflamme.

There, leading his bold marksmen, rode the eagleeyed Lescure,