Edward Thurlow, Lord Thurlow. 1781-1829 586. May MAY! queen of blossoms, And fulfilling flowers, With what pretty music Shall we charm the hours? Wilt thou have pipe and reed, Blown in the open mead? Or to the lute give heed In the green bowers? Thou hast no need of us, Or pipe or wire; Thou hast the golden bee Ripen'd with fire; And many thousand more Songsters, that thee adore, Filling earth's grassy floor With new desire. Thou hast thy mighty herds, Tame and free-livers; Doubt not, thy music too In the deep rivers; And the whole plumy flight Warbling the day and night-- Up at the gates of light, See, the lark quivers! Ebenezer Elliott. 1781-1849 587. Battle Song DAY, like our souls, is fiercely dark; What then? 'Tis day! We sleep no more; the cock crows--hark! To arms! away! They come! they come! the knell is rung Of us or them; Wide o'er their march the pomp is flung Of gold and gem. What collar'd hound of lawless sway, To famine dear-- What pension'd slave of Attila, Leads in the rear? Come they from Scythian wilds afar, Our blood to spill? Wear they the livery of the Czar? They do his will. Nor tassell'd silk, nor epaulet, Nor plume, nor torse-- No splendour gilds, all sternly met, Our foot and horse. But, dark and still, we inly glow, Condensed in ire! Strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall know Our gloom is fire. In vain your pomp, ye evil powers, Insults the land; Wrongs, vengeance, and the Cause are ours, And God's right hand! Madmen! they trample into snakes The wormy clod! Like fire, beneath their feet awakes The sword of God! Behind, before, above, below, They rouse the brave; Where'er they go, they make a foe, Or find a grave. Ebenezer Elliott. 1781-1849 588. Plaint DARK, deep, and cold the current flows Unto the sea where no wind blows, Seeking the land which no one knows. O'er its sad gloom still comes and goes The mingled wail of friends and foes, Borne to the land which no one knows. Why shrieks for help yon wretch, who goes With millions, from a world of woes, Unto the land which no one knows? Though myriads go with him who goes, Alone he goes where no wind blows, Unto the land which no one knows. For all must go where no wind blows, And none can go for him who goes; None, none return whence no one knows. Yet why should he who shrieking goes With millions, from a world of woes, Reunion seek with it or those? Alone with God, where no wind blows, And Death, his shadow--doom'd, he goes. That God is there the shadow shows. O shoreless Deep, where no wind blows! And thou, O Land which no one knows! That God is All, His shadow shows. Allan Cunningham. 1784-1842 589. The Sun rises bright in France THE sun rises bright in France, And fair sets he; But he has tint the blythe blink he had In my ain countree.