Yet on that strand was Europe freed!
The world beheld that battle bleed;
And mighty England did the deed.

'Twas eve; and on the horizon pale, Like cloud on cloud uprose the sail; And warrior echoes fill'd the gale.

There squadron'd on the sunset tide,
With day's last gold and amber dyed,
Came Britain's sea-kings in their price.

Splendid the thronging pomp swept on,
To cannon fire and trumpet tone;
Each war-ship like a floating throne.

Who led them on? A deathless name,' That through their bosoms shot like flameNelson!--the noblest son of fame!

Startled, yet stern, the Frenchman's line
Saw in the sun the red-cross shine
And felt it Ruin's judgment sign.

Then blazed the gun, then burst the shell, Then thick the muskets' fire-shower fell, And all was thunder, shout, and yell!

'Tis night-the peal comes long and loud, Each thunderer roaring from his cloudEach wrapp'd in his own sulphurous shroud.

'Tis midnight; but athwart the haze,

What startling splendour blasts the gaze?
Huge L'Orient! thine that fatal blaze.

Round mast and flag the flame-wreaths soar;
Red rolls the surge like molten ore :
Starts into spectral light the shore.

The anchors part.

No more she clings

To shore or sand.

Afar she springs,

The whirlwind and the flame her wings.

The fight is hush'd at once! no sound
Bursts from the brazen ramparts round:
The Briton's heart his hand has bound.

But, where the desert meets the glare,
Ring on the melancholy air

Howls of a mighty host's despair.

There, by the copse-strewn waters stood,
In the mind's more than solitude,
The man of glory and of blood!

Napoleon: no! great homicide!
A wilder sand, a wilder tide,
Must give the moral of thy pride.

The magazine's fired!-one horrid roar
Bursts round the sky, the sea, the shore.
L'Orient-thy last, fierce fight is o'er.

Down darts she, through the whirlpool, down;
To leave the shoals of Egypt strown

With wealth of many a shrine and throne.

Morn rose in beauty. Broadly roll'd
The red-cross flag its victor's fold.
Fallen tricolor, thy tale was told!

All calm, that lovely light beneath,
The sabre slumber'd in its sheath,
The cannon held its fiery breath.

Though Britain's blood was poured like rain,
Not one bright drop was shed in vain-
The combat shivered Europe's chain!

Where is that combat's victor? Gone.
His fame was like a star alone!
He willed to conquer--and 'twas done.

One bolder deed was yet untried—
A vassal world his flag defied:

He smote it at a blow-and died.

BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.

CASABIANCA.

THE boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;

The flame that lit the battle's wreck

Shone round him o'er the dead.

The flames roll'd on.

He would not go

Without his father's word;

That father faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud: "Say, father, say
If yet my task be done!"

He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

'Speak, father!" once again he cried,

"If I may yet be gone!"

And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,

And look'd from that lone post of death
In still, yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud,

"My father! must I stay?"

While o'er him fast through sail and shroud,

The wreathing flames made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,

They caught the flag on high,

And streamed above the gallant child

Like banners in the sky.

Then came a burst of thunder-sound

The boy-Oh! where was he?

Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea-

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part;

But the noblest thing that perished there
young faithful heart.

Was that

MRS. HEMANS.

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

OF Nelson and the North

Sing the glorious day's renown,

When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone.
By each gun the lighted brand

In a bold determined hand;

And the Prince of all the land

Led them on.—

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;

F