"But they are dead; those two are dead;
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven.'
8. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.
THE stately Homes of England,
How beautiful they stand!
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land.
The deer across their greensward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam,
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.
merry Homes of England!
Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!
There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childish tale is told;
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.
The blessed Homes of England!
How softly on their bowers
Is laid the holy quietness
That breathes from Sabbath hours!
Solemn, yet sweet, the church bell's chime
Floats through their woods at morn;
All other sounds, in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born.
The cottage Homes of England!
By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet-fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves;
And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.
The free fair Homes of England!
Long, long in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be reared
To guard each hallow'd wall!
And green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God!
9. THE AGED MINSTREL.
[From THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.]
THE way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old; His wither'd cheek, and tresses gray, Seem'd to have known a better day; The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the bards was he,
Who sung of Border chivalry.
For, well-a-day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
And he, neglected and oppress'd,
Wish'd to be with them, and at rest.
No more, on prancing palfrey borne,
He caroll'd, light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caress'd,
High placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He pour'd, to lord and lady gay,
The unpremeditated lay:
Old times were changed, old manners gone; A stranger fill'd the Stuarts' throne;
The bigots of the iron time
Had call'd his harmless art a crime.
A wandering harper, scorn'd and poor,
He begg'd his bread from door to door;
And tuned, to please a peasant's ear,
The harp a king had loved to hear.
10. THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.
was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he, before his cottage door,
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green,
His little grandchild, Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
That he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found;
She ran to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,
""Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, Who fell in the great victory.
"I find them in my garden, for
There's many hereabout;
And often when I go to plough
The ploughshare turns them out;
For many thousand men," said he,
"Were slain in that great victory."
"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin, he cries,
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they kill'd each other for?"
"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 every body said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory!
"My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burn'd his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly:
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 childing mother then
And new-born baby died!—
But things like that, you know, must be
every famous victory.
"They say, it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun !
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
"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!
"And every body praised the Duke,
Who this great fight did win :". "But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin;
"Why, that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory."
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