Awake! (not Greece-she is awake !)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood! unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.

Byron.

LXXIX

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

How the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow !

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone with his glory.

LXXX

THE OLD NAVY

THE captain stood on the carronade : First lieutenant,' says he,

'Send all my merry men aft here, for they must list to me;

I haven't the gift of the gab, my sons-because I'm bred to the sea;

That ship there is a Frenchman, who means to fight with we.

And odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long

as I've been to sea,

I've fought 'gainst every odds-but I've gained the victory!

That ship there is a Frenchman, and if we don't take she,

'Tis a thousand bullets to one, that she will capture we ;

I haven't the gift of the gab, my boys; so each man to his gun;

If she's not mine in half an hour, I'll flog each mother's son.

For odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long

as I've been to sea,

I've fought 'gainst every odds-and I've gained the victory!

We fought for twenty minutes, when the Frenchman had enough;

'I little thought,' said he, 'that your men were of such stuff' ;

Our captain took the Frenchman's sword, a low bow made to he;

'I haven't the gift of the gab, monsieur, but polite I wish to be.

And odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long

as I've been to sea,

I've fought 'gainst every odds-and I've gained the victory!'

Our captain sent for all of us: My merry men,' said he,

'I haven't the gift of the gab, my lads, but yet I thankful be:

You've done your duty handsomely, each man stood to his gun;

If you hadn't, you villains, as sure as day, I'd have flogged each mother's son.

For odds bobs, hammer and tongs, as long as I'm at sea,

I'll fight 'gainst every odds-and I'll gain the victory !'

Marryat.

LXXXI

CASABIANCA

THE boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;

The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm :
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud though child-like form.

The flames rolled on-he would not go
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud: Say, father ! say yet my task is done !"

If

He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

Speak, father!' once again he cried,
If I may yet be gone!'
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair;

He looked from that lone post of death

In still yet brave despair,

And shouted but once more aloud,

My father! must I stay ?'

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,

They caught the flag on high,

And streamed above the gallant child
Like banners in the sky.