WHY ART THOU SILENT? IS THY LOVE A

PLANT.

[TO A DISTANT FRIEND.]

WHY art thou silent? Is thy love a plant
Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
Of absence withers what was once so fair?
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant ?

Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant- 5
Bound to thy service with unceasing care,

The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
For nought but what thy happiness could spare.

Speak-though this soft warm heart, once free to

hold

A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold

Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow

'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine

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Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may

know!

CAMPBELL.

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HOHENLINDEN.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,

When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,

Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven
Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.

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But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,

And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.

Who rush to glory, or the grave!

Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few, shall part, where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

A NAVAL ODE.

I.

YE Mariners of England!

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

II.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave!—

For the deck it was their field of fame,

And Ocean was their grave:

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,

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Your manly hearts shall glow,

As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

III.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,

Her home is on the deep.

Our song and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow.

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