For the mother, doom'd unseen to keep
By the dying babe, her place,

And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep,
Yet not behold its face!

Darkness in chieftain's hall!

Darkness in peasant's cot!

While freedom, under that shadowy pall,

Sat mourning o'er her lot.

Oh! the fireside's peace we well may prize
For blood hath flowed like rain,

Pour'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries

Of England's homes again.

Heap the yule-fagots high

Till the red light fills the room!

It is home's own hour when the stormy sky

Grows thick with evening gloom.

Gather ye round the holy hearth,

And by its gladdening blaze,

Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth,

With a thought of the olden days!

HEMANS.

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

It was a summer's evening,

Old Kasper'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, Which he beside the rivulet,

In playing there, had found:

He came 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 the garden,

For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out, For many thousand men," said he, "Where 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."