But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- But we left him alone with his glory. _Charles Wolfe._ HEMANS LIII THE BENDED BOW There was heard the sound of a coming foe, There was sent through Britain a bended bow; And a voice was pour’d on the free winds far, As the land rose up at the sign of war. ‘Heard you not the battle horn?-- Reaper! leave thy golden corn! Leave it for the birds of heaven, Swords must flash, and spears be riven! Leave it for the winds to shed-- Arm! ere Britain’s turf grow red!’ And the reaper arm’d, like a freeman’s son; And the bended bow and the voice passed on. ‘Hunter! leave the mountain-chase! Take the falchion from its place! Let the wolf go free to-day, Leave him for a nobler prey! Let the deer ungall’d sweep by,-- Arm thee! Britain’s foes are nigh!’ And the hunter arm’d ere the chase was done; And the bended bow and the voice passed on. ‘Chieftain! quit the joyous feast! Stay not till the song hath ceased: Though the mead be foaming bright, Though the fires give ruddy light, Leave the hearth, and leave the hall-- Arm thee! Britain’s foes must fall.’ And the chieftain arm’d, and the horn was blown; And the bended bow and the voice passed on. ‘Prince! thy father’s deeds are told, In the bower, and in the hold! Where the goatherd’s lay is sung, Where the minstrel’s harp is strung, Foes are on thy native sea-- Give our bards a tale of thee!’ And the prince came arm’d, like a leader’s son; And the bended bow and the voice passed on. ‘Mother! stay not thou thy boy! He must learn the battle’s joy, Sister bring the sword and spear, Give thy brother words of cheer! Maiden! bid thy lover part, Britain calls the strong in heart!’ And the bended bow and the voice passed on; And the bards made song for a battle won. _Felicia Hemans._ LIV ENGLAND’S DEAD Son of the Ocean Isle! Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is reared o’er Glory’s bed. Go, stranger! track the deep-- Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, not wild wind sweep, Where rest not England’s dead. On Egypt’s burning plains, By the pyramid o’erswayed, With fearful power the noonday reigns, And the palm trees yield no shade; But let the angry sun From heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done!-- There slumber England’s dead. The hurricane hath might Along the Indian shore, And far by Ganges’ banks at night Is heard the tiger’s roar;--