IN WARTIME

"Ts: generous min.

That led his disposition t' the war.
For gentle love and noble courage are
So near clied that on: hegets another;
Or love is sister, and courage & brother.
Could affect him hette: that before.

His soldier's heart wonk, make me love him more.

I thrust base cowTos mte houer?s chair,

While the true-spirited soldier stands by
Bare-headed and all bare, whilst all his scars
They sent that ne'er durst view the face of wars.

Fali, stream, from. Heaver to bless; return as well; So did our sons: Heaver met them as they fell.

To Lucasta, on going to the Wars

TELL

ELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore ;

I could not love thee, Dear, so much,

Loved I not Honour more.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

When the Assault was intended to the City

CAPTAIN or Colonel, or Knight in arms,

Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, If ever deed of honour did thee please,

Guard them, and him within protect from harms,
He can requite thee, for he knows the charms
That call fame on such gentle acts as these,
And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas,
Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.

Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower,
The great Emathian conqueror bid spare

The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower
Went to the ground: and the repeated air
Of sad Electra's poet had the power

To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.

JOHN MILTON.

Ode,

Written in the beginning of the year 1746.

HOW sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

WILLIAM COLLINS.

IN WAR-TIME

Lament for Culloden

[April 16, 1746.]

THE lovely lass o' Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e'en and morn she cries, Alas!
And aye the saut tear blins her ee:
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day,
A waefu' day it was to me;
For there I lost my father dear,

My father dear, and brethren three.

Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growing green to see;
And by them lies the dearest lad
That ever blest a woman's ee!
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man I trow thou be;

For mony a heart thou hast made sair
That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee.

ROBERT BURNS.

Sound, sound the clarion'

SOUND, sound the clarion, fill the fife!

To all the sensual world proclaim

One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.

THOMAS OSBERT MORDAUNT.