He was by birth, some authors write, A Russian; some, a Muscovite; And 'mong the Cossacks had been bred, Of whom we in diurnals read, That serve to fill up pages here, As with their bodies ditches there.
His spear, to equal which the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast Of some great admiral, were but a wand.
Milton's Paradise Lost. The country rings around with loud alarms, And raw in fields the rude militia swarms; Mouths without hands, maintain'd at vast expense, In peace a charge, in war a weak defence: Stout once a month they march, a blustering band, And ever, but in times of need, at hand; This was the morn, when issuing on the guard, Drawn up in rank and file they stood prepar'd Of seeming arms to make a short essay, Then hasten to be drunk, the business of the day. Dryden's Cymon and Iphigenia. The brave abroad fight for the wise at home: You are but camp cameleons, fed with air; Thin fame is all the bravest hero's share.
Dryden's King Arthur. No matter what becomes of the poor soldiers, So they perform the drudgery they're fit for; Why let 'em starve for want of their arrears, Drop as they go, and lie like dogs in ditches.
'Tis the sport of statesmen, When heroes knock their knotty heads together, And fall by one another.
Rowe's Ambitious Stepmother. See, now comes the captain all daub'd with gold lace;
Ola! the sweet gentleman! look in his face; And see how he rides like a lord of the land, With the fine flaming sword that he holds in his hand.
The guards, mechanically form'd in ranks, Playing, at beat of drum, their martial pranks; Should'ring and standing as if struck to stone, While condescending majesty looks on.
Cowper's Tale of a Tub
'Tis universal soldiership has stabb'd The heart of merit in the meaner class.
Cowper's Task To swear, to game, to drink, to show at home By lewdness, idleness and sabbath-breach, The great proficiency he made abroad, T' astonish and to grieve his gazing friends, To break some maiden's and his mother's heart, To be a pest where he was useful once, Are his sole aim, and all his glory now.
And his horse, the dear creter, it prances and A warrior's weapon freed a warrior's soul.
Will pass away, how soon! and those who here Are following their dead comrade to the grave, Ere the night fall, will in their revelry Quench all remembrance. From the ties of life Unnaturally rent, a man who knew
No resting-place, no dear delights of home, Belike who never saw his children's face, Whose children knew no father; he is gone, Dropt from existence, like the wither'd leaf That from the summer tree is swept away, Its loss unseen. She hears not of his death Who bore him, and already for her son Her tears of bitterness are shed: when first He had put on the livery of blood, She wept him dead to her.
A various host-from kindred realms they came, Brethren in arms, but rivals in renown
For fair bands shall merry England claim, And with their deeds of valour deck her crown. Hers their bold port, and hers their martial frown, And hers their scorn of death in freedom's cause, Their eyes of azure, and their locks of brown, And the blunt speech that burst without a pause, And free-born thoughts, which league the soldier with the laws.
And oh lov'd warriors of the minstrel's land! Yonder your bonnets nod, your tartans wave! The rugged form may mark the mountain band, And harsher features, and a mien more grave; But ne'er in battle-field throbb'd heart more brave Than that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid. Scott. Hark! from yon stately ranks what laughter rings, Mingling wild mirth with war's stern minstrelsy, His jest while each blithe comrade round him flings,
And moves to death with military glee; Boast, Erin, boast them; tameless, frank, and free, In kindness warm, and fierce in danger known, Rough nature's children, humorous as she:
A mere soldier, a mere tool, a kind Of human sword in a fiend's hand: the other Is master-mover of his warlike puppet.
Then there were foreigners of much renown, Byron's Sardanapalus. Of various nations, and all volunteers; Not fighting for their country or its crown, But wishing to be one day Brigadiers: Also to have the sacking of a town;
A pleasant thing to young men at their years. Sixteen call'd Thomson, and nineteen nam'd 'Mongst them were several Englishmen of pith, Smith. Byron.
There shall they rot- ambition's honour'd fools: Yes, honour decks the turf that wraps their clay!
Vain sophistry! in these behold the tools, The broken tools, that tyrants cast away By myriads, when they dare to pave their way With human hearts-to what?—a dream alone. Byron's Childe Harold.
Enough of battle's minions! let them play Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame: Fame that will scarce re-animate their clay, Though thousands fall to deck some single name. In sooth 't were sad to thwart their noble aim Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country's good,
And he, yon chieftain — strike the proudest tone And die, that living might have prov'd her shame.
Fame is my mistress, madam, and my sword The only friend I ever woo'd her with.
O'er the proud heads of free men our star-banner waves,
Frances Kemble Butler. Men firm as their mountains and still as their
'Mid the din of arms, when the dust and smoke
In clouds are curling o'er thee, Be firm till the enemy's ranks are broke, And they fall, or flee before thee! But I would not have thee towering stand O'er him who's for many crying,
But bow to the earth, and with tender hand Raise up the faint and dying.
At midnight in the forest shades, Bozzaris rang'd his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood, There had the glad earth drank their blood On old Platea's day;
Miss Gould's Poems. The joyous birds, shrouded in cheerful shade, The notes unto the voice attemper'd sweet; Th' angelical soft trembling voices made To th' instruments divine respondence meet; The silver sounding instruments did meet With the base murmur of the water's fall. The water's fall with difference discreet, Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call; The gentle warbling wind low answered to all. Spenser's Fairy Queen.
And now there breath'd that haunted air The sons of sires who conquer'd there, With arm to strike and soul to dare, As quick, as far as they.
Halleck's Bozzaris. They fought like brave men, long and well; They pil'd that ground with Moslem slain, They conquer'd - but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won;
Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose,
Like flowers at set of sun. Halleck's Bozzaris. The Green-Mountaineer- the Stark of Ben- nington:-
When on the field his band the Hessians fought, Briefly he spoke before the fight began: "Soldiers! those German gentlemen are bought For four pounds eight-and-sevenpence per man, By England's king; a bargain as is thought. Are we worth more? Let's prove it now we
Now my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, The season's difference; as the icy fang, And churlish chiding of the winter's wind; Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say, This is no flattery: these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.
I sat me down to watch upon a bank With ivy canopied, and interwove With flaunting honeysuckle, and began, Wrapt in a pleasing fit of melancholy, To meditate my rural minstrelsy, 'Till fancy had her fill.
O sacred solitude! divine retreat! Choice of the prudent! envy of the great! By the pure stream, or in thy waving shade, We court fair wisdom, that celestial maid: The genuine offspring of her lov'd embrace, (Strangers on earth!) are innocence and peace. Young's Love of Fame. O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! Milton's Paradise Lost. Who think it solitude to be alone.
Alone, for other creature in this place, Living or lifeless, to be found was none.
What happiness, who can enjoy alone, Or of enjoying what contentment find?
Young's Night Thoughts. Then horrid silence follow'd, broke alone By the low murmurs of the restless deep,
Milton's Paradise Lost. Mixt with the doubtful breeze, that now and then Sigh'd thro' the mournful woods.
Solitude is sometimes best society, And short retirement urges sweet return.
Milton's Paradise Lost. Majestic woods, of every vigorous green
There in close covert by some brook, Where no profaner eye can look, Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring, With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep.
Stage above stage, high waving o'er the hills; Or to the far horizon wide diffus'd
A boundless deep immensity of shade.
Thus solitary, and in pensive guise,
Oft let me wander o'er the russet mead,
And through the sadden'd grove, where scarce is
Milton's Il Penseroso. One dying strain, to cheer the woodman's toil.
But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves, Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves, Black melancholy sits, and round her throws A death-like silence, and a dread repose: Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene, Shades every flower, and darkens every green, Deepens the murmur of the falling floods, And breathes a browner horror on the woods. Pope's Eloisa. Bear me, some God! oh, quickly bear me hence To wholesome solitude, the nurse of sense; Where contemplation prunes her ruffled wings, And the free soul looks down to pity kings.
For solitude, however some may rave, Seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave, A sepulchre in which the living lie, Where all good qualities grow sick and die. I praise the Frenchman, his remark was shrewd, How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, Whom I may whisper-solitude is sweet. Cowper's Retirement.
The glowing hearth may satisfy awhile With faint illumination, that uplifts The shadows to the ceiling, there by fits Dancing uncouthly to the quivering flame. Cowper's Task. Me oft as fancy ludicrous and wild Sooth'd with a waking dream of houses, tow'rs, Trees, churches, and strange visages express'd In the red cinders, while with poring eye I gaz'd, myself creating what I saw, Nor less amus'd have I quiescent watch'd The sooty films that play upon the bars Pendulous, and foreboding in the view Of superstition, prophesying still,
And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb, When all in mist the world below was lost. What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime, Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast, And view the enormous waste of vapour, lost In billows, lengthening to th' horizon round, Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now emboss'd!
And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound; Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar pro found!
In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene. In darkness and in storm he found delight: Nor less, than when on ocean-wave serene The southern sun diffused his dazzling sheen. Even sad vicissitudes amus'd his soul: And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to control. Beattie's Minstrel,
The wildest waste but this can show, Some touch of nature's genial glow; But here,-above, around, below,
Though still deceiv'd, some stranger's near On mountain or on glen,
"Tis thus the understanding takes repose
In indolent vacuity of thought,
And sleeps and is refresh'd. Meanwhile the face Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask Of deep deliberation, as the man
Were task'd to his full strength, absorb'd and lost. Cowper's Task.
Oft when the winter storm had ceas'd to rave, He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to view The clouds stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave High-towering, sail along the horizon blue: Where, 'midst the changeful scenery, ever new, Fancy a thousand wond'rous forms descries, More wildly great than ever pencil drew, Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size, Ana glitt'ring cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise. Beattie's Minstrel.
And past those settlers' haunts the eye might roam, Where earth's unliving silence all would seem; Save where on rocks the beaver built his dome, Or buffalo remote low'd far from human home. Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming.
Enthusiast of the woods! when years apace Had bound thy lovely waist with woman's zone, The sunrise path at morn, I see thee trace, To hils with high magnolia overgrown, And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and alone. Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming.
Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower, Nor aught of vegetative power,
The weary eye can ken.
Scott's Lord of the Isles
Oh! who can tell the unspeakable misery Of solitude like this!
No sound hath ever reach'd my ear, Save of the passing wind.
The fountain's everlasting flow, The forest in the gale, The pattering of the shower, Sounds dead and mournful all.
No traces of those joys, alas! remain! A desert solitude alone appears. No verdant shade relieves the sandy plain, The wide-spread waste no gentle fountain cheers. One barren face the dreary prospect wears; Nought through the vast horizon meets her eye To calm the tumult of her fears,
No trace of human habitation nigh,
A sandy wild beneath, above a threatening sky. Mrs. Tighe's Psyche.
To view alone The fairest scenes of land and deep, With none to listen and reply
To thoughts with which my heart beat high, Were irksome-for whate'er my mood, In sooth I love not solitude.
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