Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain waves,

Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak

She quells the floods below

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy tempests blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn ;

Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceas'd to blow.

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.

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 determin'd 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.
As they drifted on their path,

There was silence deep as death ;
And the boldest held his breath,

For a time.

But the might of England flush'd
To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rush'd
O'er the deadly space between.

VOL. IV.

ΑΛ

Hearts of oak! our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back ;

Their shots along the deep slowly boom,-
Then cease- -and all is wail,

As they strike the shatter'd sail;
Or in conflagration pale

Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hail'd them o'er the wave;
Ye are brothers! Ye are men!

And we conquer but to save ;

So

peace instead of death let us bring:

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,

With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet

To our king.

Then Denmark blest our chief,

That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief,
From her people, wildly rose,

As death withdrew his shades from the day.

While the sun look'd smiling bright,

O'er a wide and woful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

Now joy, Old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,

While the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore !

Soft sigh the winds of heav'n o'er their grave!

While the billow mournful rolls,

And the mermaid's song condoles,

Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave.

DE BRUCE, DE BRUCE.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

De Bruce! De Bruce !—with that proud call Thy glens, green Galloway,

Grow bright with helm, and axe, and glaive,
And plumes in close array :

The English shafts are loosed, and see
They fall like winter sleet;

The southern nobles urge their steeds,

Earth shudders 'neath their feet—
Flow gently on, thou gentle Orr,
Down to old Solway's flood,—
The ruddy tide that stains thy stream
Is England's richest blood.

Flow gently onwards, gentle Orr,
Along thy greenwood banks
King Robert raised his martial cry,

And broke the English ranks ;
Black Douglas smiled and wiped his blade,
He and the gallant Graeme ;

And, as the lightning from the cloud,

Here fiery Randolph came;

And stubborn Maxwell too was here,

Who spared nor strength nor steel, With him who won the winged spur

Which gleams on Johnstone's heel.