18 THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And heaved a natural sigh: "'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory. "I find them in the garden, The ploughshare turns them out: For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory." "Now tell us what 'twas all about," "Now tell us all about the war, "It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they kill'd each other for I could not well make out; But everybody said," quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory. THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. "My father lived at Blenheim then, They burn'd his cottage to the ground, So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head. "With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide, And many a tender mother then And new-born baby died; But things like that, you know, must be "They say it was a shocking sight, After the field was won, For many a thousand bodies there Lay rotting in the sun; But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. 19 "Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won, And our good Prince Eugene.""Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine. "Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, "It was a FAMOUS VICTORY. 20 THE CHILD AND THE FLOWERS. "And everybody praised the Duke, Why that I cannot tell," said he: "But 'twas A FAMOUS VICTORY." SOUTHEY. THE CHILD AND THE FLOWERS. PRETTY little flowers, that blow Who has made you fair and sweet, Who made such tender things as ye. SABBATH CHIMES. Listen, while I simply tell Of Him who "doeth all things well." Before the earth for sin was curst; And think, if thus His tender care SABBATH CHIMES. THERE'S music in the morning air, Far calling to the House of Prayer The humblest peasant's feet. Long as the chime is heard, Each cottage sends its tenants poor 21 22 SABBATH CHIMES. Where'er the British power hath trod, The wood-built church is known ;: The warrior from his armed tent, If, at an earthly chime, the tread In God's own temple-seat, How blest the sight, from death's dark sleep, To see God's saints arise; And countless hosts of angels keep The Sabbath of the skies! C. SWAIN. |