POETRY. STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST KILLED IN RESISTING THE REGENCY AND THE DUKE OF ANGOULEME. By THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. BRAVE men who at the Trocadero fell- For Freedom, and ye have not died in vain ; And looking on your graves, though trophied not, As holier, hallow'd ground, than priests could make the spot! What though your cause be baffled-freemen cast In dungeons-dragg'd to death, or forced to flee; Hope is not wither'd in affliction's blast The patriot's blood's the seed of Freedom's tree; Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell, Go to your bloody rites again-bring back No eye may search-no tongue may challenge or reveal! Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime Too proudly, ye oppressors !-Spain was free, Glory to them that die in this great cause! SONG OF THE GREEKS. By THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. AGAIN to the battle, Achaians! Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance; Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree It has been, and shall yet be the land of the free: For the cross of our faith is replanted, The pale dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves May be wash'd out in blood from our forefathers' graves. Their spirits are hovering o'er us, And the sword shall to glory restore us. Ah! what though no succour advances, Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances Are stretch'd in our aid-be the combat our own! Or, that dying, our deaths shall be glorious. A breath of submission we breathe not; The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not! If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves; To the charge!Heaven's banner is o'er us. This day shall ye blush for its story, Or brighten your lives with its glory. Our women, Oh, say, shall they shriek in despair, Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair? If a coward there be that would slacken Till we've trampled the turban and shown ourselves worth As heroes descended from heroes. Old Greece lightens up with emotion Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean; Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring, And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring: Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness, That were cold and extinguish'd in sadness; Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white-waving arms, Singing joy to the brave that deliver'd their charms, When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens. A DREAM. By THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. WELL may sleep present us fictions, As the world we wake to view. T* Newdigale Prize Poem for 1825. By RICHARD CLARKE SEWELL, of Magdalen College, Oxford. THE dark pine waves on Tiber's classic steep, T* 2 |