Like leviathans afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew

On the lofty British line :

It was ten of April morn by the chime :
As they drifted on their path,

There was silence deep as death;

And the boldest-held his breath
For a time.

But the might of England flush'd
To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rush'd

O'er the deadly space between.

"Hearts of oak!" our captains cried, when each

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun!

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back :—

Their shots along the deep slowly boom ;

Then ceased-and all is wail,

As they strike the shatter'd sail

Or, in conflagration pale,

Light the gloom!

gun

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hail'd them o'er the wave, "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save !

So

peace, instead of death, let us bring: But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,

With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet

To our king."

Then Denmark bless'd our chief,

That he their wounds repose; gave

And the sounds of joy and grief

From her people wildly rose ;

As death withdrew his shades from the day: While the sun look'd smiling-bright

O'er a wide and woful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away!

Now joy, old England raise
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,

While the wine-cup shines in light-
And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,

By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore !

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,

On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant-good Riou!

Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,

And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

CAMPBELL.

FIELD OF WATERLOO.

STOP-for thy tread is on an empire's dust! An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below! Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust ? Nor column trophied for triumphal show? None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so. As the ground was before, thus let it be.— How that red rain hath made the harvest grow! And is this all the world has gain'd by thee, Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?